


Challenge Four: Minor Characters

by Anonymous



Category: Merlin (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-07
Updated: 2012-07-06
Packaged: 2017-11-09 08:19:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 101,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/453336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Entries for <a href="http://summerpornathon.livejournal.com/81349.html">Challenge Four: Minor Characters</a> for summerpornathon 2012</p><p>Voting post can be found <a href="http://summerpornathon.livejournal.com/81719.html">here</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Group A (with warnings)

**01.**

She'd been sweeping off the pavement in front of her uncle's shop when they first met.

He'd pulled up on a motorbike – a big, gleaming thing louder than the floor waxer Gaius ran in the mornings, and she'll never forget those first few inexplicably nervous moments seeing him, the way he'd got off the bike with a swagger, offered a lazy salute, then blushed when his helmet got caught on his ears.

*

Balinor's locked himself away again.

Hunith wants nothing more than to kick his door in, splinter the wood and break the hinges off.

She thinks about leaving when it gets this bad, thinks – fuck him, and vividly imagines going back to her town, back to her job with Gaius, back to a shower every night and a reliable cooker. Merlin would have proper toys, playmates – stories read to him before bed.

The images make her sick with wanting; they make her rage when Merlin tells her he's cold and their blankets smell of cat piss, when all she wants is to heat up a goddamn _bowl of soup_ instead of eating it right out of the tin, but especially when it sinks in – as it must every time – how impossible the images are.

*

She remembers the first time they fucked.

They'd slept together before then – made love out in a field while she was supposed to be at a friend's, done it in the backseat of her beat up Honda more times than they could count – but this had been different.

He'd been disappeared on one of his weeks-long absences that, only later, she learned were trips to see Kilgharrah. 

And then he'd just shown up outside the shop at the end of one of her shifts, got off that bike with that stupid grin, no explanations, no words and just - 

She'd hit him. Gave him a good bruise and cracked her knuckles for her trouble.

But she went to him later.

He used to stay in a shitty motel near the motorway with green and maroon walls and orange duvets. 

The conversation before the sex is muddled now – too similar to dozens of others – but pushing him back, ignoring her stuttering heartbeat and boiling blood, climbing atop him – that's still crystal clear.

She can still see his wide eyes when she thinks about it, how he'd gone completely silent and still, uncertain, but flushed with arousal. She'd cursed at him, yanked at his clothes and her own and sunk down on his cock, cursed some more until he took the hint and gripped her hips, fucked up and up like she wanted and allowed her to hide her face in his hair.

*

When Balinor does come out later, eyes heavy and sad, Hunith turns her face and pulls a sleeping Merlin closer.

*

She got pregnant after two years, and then she met a dragon.

She'd known about Kilgharrah - had half believed he wasn't real - just some strange story Balinor had made up, no real magic, no real danger, but he stood massive before them, head bowed low to get a good look.

“He is the one the prophesies speak of,” he'd said in his rumbling voice, and directed a pointed stare at Hunith's middle.

Balinor had gone stiff. “He will have magic?”

“He will _be_ magic,” Kilgharrah answered. “They will track him. You will have to run.”

*

It must be near dawn when Hunith feels a warmth settle in at her back, long and familiar.

She ignores it for a time, tries to hold onto her earlier anger, but feels it slip away when a big hand rests across her belly, reaches further and palms Merlin's small head.

“I know...” Balinor says, voice low and quiet. But he stops, starts again, quicker. “I've done this to you.”

Hunith draws in a deep breath and holds it, then rests her hand atop Balinor's, fingers brushing Merlin's wild curls.

“I know you're angry – I -” he starts again. “I'm so close to getting the cloaking spell to work. And then we wouldn't – We could stay in one place. Merlin's magic wouldn't alert them and -”

“I know,” Hunith whispers back, and she does.

She knows he tries, that he stays away because he feels guilty, because he introduced magic into her life and turned it upside down and now there's Merlin and – All they can do is hope. Hope the spell works, hope that Merlin is the boy of prophecy who will deliver them all, hope that they will make it to see it happen. Together.

* * *

**02.**

He leaves behind the parts of himself which are knight, and warrior, and king. He shucks that noble skin outside her tent and comes unto her presence like a supplicant.

It is their way.

Cenred is no fool- it’s her way or none at all. He takes what he’s given when she chooses to give it.

In return, Morgause lets him have all the sensation he could ask for, and even that which he could not, _dare_ not, not ever.

He has watched her all day. She lights him up with her hard eyes and sets him asimmer with cold words, until he’s aching hard for her and his blood is boiling, until he’s distilled down to an essence of stars under his eyelids, and fistfuls of bedding in sweaty palms.

She has conquered him with her indifference.

Then, she divides him with oiled hands, parting his cheeks and sinking her thumbs into his body as though she were halving a peach.

He loves her fiercely when she lays him out like this, on his stomach, like an animal.

Beneath him, furs matted with sweat and longing make his skin itch, make him restless. Cenred rubs and rolls over them like a beast in heat- as much to relieve the prickling of his skin as to satisfy the desperate need to rut, to pierce something, to fuck the way he himself is about to be fucked.

She massages and kneads him until he’s swollen and thick with it. His back is strung like a bow, practically concave as he presents her his rump, and still she takes her time.

“Spread your legs wider,” she orders, and, “I’m going to fuck you, and fuck you, and fuck you.” 

Her words are waves of delight, pebbling his skin.

There is nothing left of King Cenred but bared teeth and hot, forced breath when she finally takes him, coring him with her greased, wooden cock.

He can feel the harness each time she thrusts into his body, can hear the leather creaking against buckles and eyelets where it’s fastened tight around her thighs and hips.

There is no room for thought, with all these sensations.

Trapped between the scratch of the bedding against his chest and Morgause’s yellow hair falling like lashes over his spine, he is adrift. A weightless thing. _Her_ thing.

His cock swings heavily, engorged and purple between his legs. It’s the sweetest agony to have it occasionally brush his thigh or the furs below.

Sometimes, she knows what he’s thinking. “Touch yourself,” she says, benevolent.

Leaning all his weight on his knees and one elbow, he reaches between his legs and fists himself, groaning. He fingers his foreskin and cups his bollocks, careful not to go over, not to lose himself just yet. She likes to tell him when.

With his eyes tightly shut, he teases his fingers further, following the seam of his sac until he can feel where the smooth wood penetrates him _again_ , and _again_ , and _again_ , just like she promised. He spreads two fingers around its smooth, timber girth and drops his head to Morgause’s bed, sucking air just to stay conscious.

Warm hands knead down to the small of his back, Morgause’s blunt nails embossing halfmoons into his hips. She draws curlicues over his skin until her fingers meet in the cleft of his buttocks, and then she rubs over the stretch where her thickly carved phallus impales him. Their fingers bond there, hooking each other and fondling Morgause's cock.

Morgause moans like she can feel it, and for all Cenred knows, she can.

“How I love to fuck your tight little arsehole,” she tells him, knowing how her vulgarity turn him inside out with pleasure, how it makes him pant and moan like a well-tipped whore. “Pull yourself,” she says, and he does, matching her speed, her thrust to his tug.

She takes the wooden phallus in her hand and steadies it, directing it to find the thing inside him which makes his thighs quiver and blood scream in his veins, and she caresses it with the tip of the cock like she knows, just _knows_.

Gripping his hip as tightly as her sword, she tells him, “Come,” and he does, and he does, and he does, until the tide of it breaks over his head and he spills thickly over the furs. She helps him ride it out, fucking him hard but touching him softly, and he loves the dichotomy of it, her way of showing him love. 

He knows she loves him. He’s sure of it.

One day soon, when her cause-- _their_ cause--prevails, she will let him kiss her.

* * *

**03.**

“You could get killed for this,” Ygraine warned, breathlessly. “We both could. Infidelity in royal family is punishable by death.”

“There are worse things than death,” Nimueh told her and nibbled gently at Ygraine’s neck. Her fingers were touching skin under the Queen’s nightgown and looking for all the places that made her gasp and wither. Maybe Uther suspected there was something more in the friendship between Ygraine and her best friend, maybe he didn’t, but they were careful not to do anything while he was home. While he was on a patrol with his knights, however, was a completely different matter.

Nimueh pushed one long finger inside Ygraine’s soft heat. Ygraine raised her hips a little to give her more room and to tell it was alright to give her more. Sucking the Queen’s nipple into his mouth, Nimueh pushed another finger in and moved them in a teasing way she knew would drive Ygraine mad with want. For a moment, Nimueh wondered if it was ever this good for Ygraine when she was with her husband, when she was with the man who was so deeply in love with her. If she would ever moan like this when Uther pushed inside her.

Somehow Nimueh did not believe it. The Queen had always been hers to serve, even before she had married the King, and she had always done it gladly. The King was nothing compared to Nimueh, who could make the lovemaking a magical experience in ways Uther would never understand. Uther never understood how magic and laws of the Old Religion truly worked.

Ygraine was pushing towards the fingers that were moving inside her. Nimueh found a spot that made her gasp and arch her back.

“Good?” Nimueh asked and got her answer when Ygraine pulled her into a furious kiss. The Queen bit Nimueh’s lip so hard that for a moment she tasted blood.

“I’m not a maiden! For the love of gods, go harder!”

Nimueh kissed her jaw and moved to remove the Queen’s gown completely. With her other hand she was teasing the responsive spot she had found inside her and with another she caressed her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. Pulling her fingers out, she kneeled between her legs, pushed them wider and began to look for all the sensitive places with her tongue instead. Ygraine’s hips twitched when she found the little nub of pleasure, and Nimueh kept teasing it with her tongue and sucking it gently between her lips. When Ygraine was whimpering and gasping with every breath, Nimueh touched between her own legs.

“No, let me,” Ygraine gasped when she realised what Nimueh was doing. “I need to...”

Nimueh turned around and straddled the Queen’s upper body, leaning between her legs to complete what had been interrupted for a second. She could not see Ygraine this way, but could keep licking, and feeling the familiar touch of Ygraine’s fingers between her legs, on her and in her, was almost enough to make up for not seeing her.

Ygraine didn’t come gracefully. She reached her peak begging and moaning and losing all control over her body. When she was coming and her fingers went limp, Nimueh grabbed her wrist and guided them in a way that finally made her come apart, too, silently but grasping the sheets and biting the skin of Ygraine’s thigh.

After she stopped shuddering, she climbed off and turned around to lie next to her Queen. Ygraine touched her face affectionately and that moment Nimueh knew he loved her. That she could never forgive anyone for hurting her.

“I would do anything for you,” Nimueh confessed. It was a rare admission; they hardly ever talked about their feelings beyond those of friendship.

“Would you?” Ygraine said thoughtfully. They both knew what was not being said aloud, but Nimueh had to know, _had to know_ , what the Queen truly thought, because on her own she would never go through with such a gamble on human lives.

“Uther has asked me to use magic to give you a son. An heir,” she said. “Is that what you want?”

After a moment of silence Ygraine nodded. Nimueh knew the wish would have a price, possibly a horrible one, but she couldn’t find it in her to deny her Queen anything.

* * *

**04.**

When Merlin was around, his mum being a hottie was never a problem: every time she snuck into Will’s thoughts while he manhandled himself, up Merlin would pop like a novelty toy with the magical power of boner-slayage and evaporate those pesky thoughts. But Merlin – bastard – fucked off to university, and she stopped being _Merlin’s mum_ and started being _the hot chick at the community centre who’s a total badass even when someone properly sketch is waving their fist in her face_.

Will tries – he really does – not to flirt with her, but one day they’re making sandwiches for the homeless or whatever (he wasn’t really listening, just staring at her mouth and hoping there was a slice of bread somewhere in the vicinity of his knife) and completely by accident he says her arse looks killer in those skinny jeans. She laughs and swats him, so he says, “No, really. It’s like a Chocolate Orange. I know the wrapper’s going to be a nightmare but I just want to get in there.” 

Things go full on awry when she smiles at him all twinkly and says, “You’re not too old to put over my knee, you know.”

Come the fuck on. There’s not a man alive who wouldn’t run to the toilets and wank like he was trying to come quicker than a human has ever, ever come. 

But that’s just a wank. A bit seedy, yes, but not flat-out, hold-the-phone _wrong._ No, he doesn’t get to _that_ until one Friday night when he’s coming back from the pub and the lights are on and the way she’s standing just looks sad, you know? And he can’t have that, so he knocks on the window and scares the shit out of her. On opposite sides of the glass, they laugh, and he gives her a thumbs-up thumbs-down how are you doing in there, and she rolls her eyes and before he’s thought it through, she’s letting him in.

“You missing Merlin?”

“Silly. I know he’s fine.”

“Yeah, well.” He touches her arm – just a friendly little rub, calm down – and she sort of caves, and then he knows it’s dangerous territory but they’re hugging. “He’s happy, H. We got to be happy he’s happy, even if his decision makes us miserable as fuck.”

She snuggles closer and then, wow, there it is: _the mother_ of all instant hard-ons just from the soft vanilla smell of her neck and yes, all right, the fact her boobs are smooshed up against his chest doesn’t hurt. Screwing his eyes up, he pulls away, and _fucking hell_ if her looking down at his cock isn’t the most compelling thing in the entire goddamn galaxy. “Sorry.”

“Nice to know I’m not completely past it.”

“What? You’re the best looking woman on the estate by fourteen fucking country miles.” 

“You’re sweet.”

“I’m serious is what I am.” And then – well, her cheek’s just there and it’s supposed to be a peck but when his lips land, something happens – frizzle-on or whatever – and it’s not her cheek he wants it’s that beautiful mouth. In a breath, he’s actually fucking kissing her and holy mother of god she’s not slapping him, she’s actually sinking in and fuck, if that’s not her tongue he’s a kipper. 

He’s not sure quite how he ends up against the edge of the table, but her knuckles dig into his stomach as she unbuttons his jeans and all he can do is flail a hand out for something to hang onto. He has no fucking clue why crawling onto the wood backwards is his brain’s take on a good idea, but he can’t stop to assess the situation because she’s struggling out of her skinnies and those black lacy short-knickers have always been his very favourite sort. Especially when they’re heading floor-ward. 

_Straddled_ , he thinks is the word for what happens next. Pinning his hands by his head, she leans over him, mouth twisting as she slides down onto his cock. She doesn’t give him chance to adjust, moves, and Jesus; he’s going to come in a truly undignified amount of time.

He strains up for a kiss, and as she grants him one, mouth desperate and her boobs grazing his chest, he thinks he actually might die.

When he finds out about this, Merlin is going to smack him so hard his face will be in a different time zone to his body, and it will absolutely, positively be worth it.

* * *

**05.**

The bell on the door rang, signaling a new customer.

He didn't bother to look up from his work; he needed to get the clock repaired before the owner returned. There was no need to, anyway. He knew who had stepped through that door. He would always know.

"Your tail is showing," he said, adjusting one of the springs.

"How do you know, old man? You haven't even looked at me."

Kilgharrah sighed and made a show of looking up; sure enough, Aithusa's tail was sticking out from a corner of his trousers. "It would do you good to learn some patience, young one. A hasty glamour will get you caught one of these days."

"Is that something you're just saying, or something you _know_?"

It was always a pity, Kilgharrah thought, that Aithusa had ended up such a rebel. He hid himself not like Kilgharrah did, behind old clocks and incense and eccentricities, but with tattoos and cigarettes and colorful clothing. The thin hint of scales on his neck would be explained away as either a skin condition or a detailed tattoo should any human ask, depending on what struck his fancy. Kilgharrah just wore high-collared shirts.

Kilgharrah shook his head and went to lock up the store. "It's something I suspect. I am not in the habit of handing out prophecies, young one."

The moment he'd turned the sign to "closed," Aithusa was on him, pressing their lips together and grasping at Kilgharrah's shirt. Kilgharrah allowed it, let himself sink into the familiar charcoal taste of the only other of his kind.

When they pulled apart -- Aithusa's eyes already glazed over with desire -- Kilgharrah wrapped a hand around his wrist and pulled him to the back room. They both divested themselves of their clothing, to save it from being ripped, and then Aithusa was pushing him down onto the large mattress in the middle of the room.

It was not a habit Kilgharrah often indulged in, these ridiculous human copulations, because lying with humans left him aching for the old days when he could take a mate in the skies. Aithusa, who had never known anything else, craved them.

At least it was better with Aithusa, who had smooth scales down his back, and whose breath lit the air with fire. And it was easier: Kilgharrah ground his hands down on the two small stumps on Aithusa's back, where wings would have been in his true form, and was rewarded with a deep shudder.

"Fuck, old man... you really cut to the chase." Aithusa dug his claws into Kilgharrah's side and dragged them down. It was just enough pain to light something inside Kilgharrah; his cock started to harden between his legs.

There was something to be said about the enthusiasm of youth: Aithusa didn't wait long to scoot back and lower his head onto Kilgharrah's cock. His long tongue curled around the base and squeezed -- a movement no human could hope to achieve. Even in this form, there was no denying that Aithusa was a dragon.

Kilgharrah smiled at that thought, and brought his hands to Aithusa's ears. They looked human, until he touched them, and then he could feel the thin, leathery texture of dragon skin. The touch made Aithusa purr around Kilgharrah's cock.

Aithusa pulled away. "Okay, enough foreplay. Let's get to the main event."

Even though they'd barely had _any_ foreplay, Kilgharrah thought, but he didn't protest when Aithusa gave him two fingers to suck on, and watching Aithusa loosen himself up with those same fingers was not unpleasant either.

When Aithusa sank down onto him, for a moment it did feel like they were flying through the skies. Kilgharrah wrapped his arms around Aithusa, raked his claws down his back. In retaliation, Aithusa bit down on Kilgharrah's neck. There would be marks on both of them come morning.

Kilgharrah let his hand settle at the base of Aithusa's tail, stroking and urging Aithusa to move. The mattress shifted every thrust, and the air started getting very dry. They could burn the place down around themselves, if they weren't careful.

Kilgharrah wrapped his hand around Aithusa's cock and let his claws lightly scrape across the skin. Aithusa gave a strangled cry, a shrill tone no human ear would pick up.

They were the last dragons on earth, and had been for the past two thousand years. Kilgharrah couldn't give Aithusa a true dragon's life; he could only give him this brief taste of one.

* * *

**06.**

She was a screaming bird with wings ablaze, she flew to the nearest sky, but it opened up into another realm. The wind whipped deliriously. She gripped the metal bars and shrieked at the gray sky, the black ground below, the line of creatures glinting with silver armour gliding lazily before this tower. 

She spun, sensing a beast, but there was Nimueh, who touched her, eyes wide but hands cool and voice warm. She fell against her breast, and they sank together to the floor of this sky-cage. When she wept, groaningly, Nimueh wept with her, _you're awake, you're awake--_

She lifted her head to find herself on a peculiar balcony. It looked down far, near as far as the cliffs at Tintagel. The view below was more unnatural than anything she could account for. 

She could be in hell. At least she had company. 

Nimueh's eyes were sunken, as though they'd seen far too much and would rather retreat, leaving dark shadows where'd they once shone bright hope. It was perhaps only Ygraine's fancy. She felt tired like after a long journey. A second look, a starved traveler's second helpings, said only that Nimueh was still hers, still beautiful, though miserable and bruised and garbed in a preposterous wardrobe.

"Trousers," she said. "Really!"

Nimueh's jaw dropped. It pleased Ygraine. Surprising Nimueh was no mean feat. The knowledge she held sometimes seemed only surpassed by her pride in it. Nimueh was drawing away, picking at the trousers; Uther and Nimueh always prickled at her needling their arrogance. Her kisses soothed the little wounds soon enough. Those with power such as theirs needed the gentle checking, to balance the spoiling adoration even she could not deny them. 

Even now. "And who's done this?" She laid her fingers against the bruise that bloomed bloody fingers across that darling cheek. "Uther will kill them. Best not let him see." Oh. But was Uther here in hell with them? Could one kill, in hell?

Nimueh's face twisted, and smoothed instantly. "It doesn't matter," she said, catching up Ygraine's hand in her own. "I'm so sorry I was away. Now that you're here...the boy will come when he sees you, and _he_ won't be long to follow in the boy's wake--he always does. Everything will be fine now," she said, as though convincing herself. "It has to be."

She and Uther always gave her these terribly intense stares, as though she were some fragile thing they could cage up safe with only their gaze. For the first time she felt as eggshell-delicate as they seemed to think. 

Her thoughts of Uther and Nimueh's bruised egos and greedy dragon-gazes seemed summoned from a long time ago. "Where have I been, Nim? I think I missed you."

"I'd have taken you back so much sooner if I could have, love. " Nimueh rubbed a thumb across Ygraine's collarbone. Ygraine found she herself was quite naked, but for a sheet twined round her limbs. She grasped one end. Clean, crisp between her fingers, but she knew it soaked with sweat, with red, and screams--

Nimueh watched her wary. "Love, tell me," Ygraine whispered. 

Nimueh bit her lip, then bent forward and bit Ygraine's. "Later," she whispered. 

"Where is--"

"Don't speak of him now," Nimueh said harshly. Her voice was the grating beast's that Ygraine had felt lurking outside her cage; then it was only Nimueh, hushing apologies, unwrapping her under the cold metal sky and shutting out the wind with a binding of limbs. "Later. Later."

"Hurry, then," Ygraine demanded. Now that Nimueh's hand was working at her, she felt wetness blossoming and urgent. "I need you now." She swallowed the drought in her mouth and smiled for Nimueh. "And I need to know, later, about that ridiculous outfit. What it this blue stuff? She yanked at the terrible trousers, coarse and impossibly tight. 

Nimueh laughed. "I can't believe you." She slithers out of the trousers, the strange leather coat of black, the obscenely tight shirt. "Thousands of years, and the first thing from your lips is a comment on my fashion."

Everything was hard and gray and new, from the open sky above to the rough balcony beneath her shoulderblades; she shut it out, and buried herself in Nimueh's familiar skin. Nimueh cored Ygraine with her hot tongue as Ygraine gasped up at the roiling clouds. Her nipples pebbled in the cool air. 

Thousands of years. She didn't touch it, for now. If she knew one thing about hell, it was that there was plenty of time here.

* * *

**07.**

Warnings: slight breathplay

“Did he ever fuck you?”

George wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Must you speak so vulgarly?”

“My apologies,” said Morris, sarcastically. “Didst thou prince ever bendeth you over and place his royal cock in thou plump rear?”

George felt no pity when the pillow hit Morris full in the face. Morris let out an indignant squawk.

“ _No,_ ” he said. “He did not.”

There was a moment of silence.

“Wait. Did you….” He waved his hands in the air, knowing Morris would understand because half the time, they didn’t even need to speak to know what the other wanted.

Morris laughed. “Are you serious? No, he didn’t. I think I was a plaything for him, but not the kinky kind I’m afraid.” He paused and considered. “I probably would have said yes, though. He’s a handsome bloke, even if he is the most arrogant prick you’ve ever met.”

“I pity Merlin. Did you know,” he leaned forward, conspiratorially, and lowered his voice, “Merlin doesn’t even know how to take care of the _brass_?”

Morris snickered.

“What?”

“Just wondering how he’s punished is all,” Morris said. “I can see it now. _Thou hast dishonored me greatly. Now, suck thy cock as retribution._ ”

George knew Morris was playing the fool, but he couldn’t stop the flush creeping up his neck as he thought about being ordered to his knees for his disobedience, about opening his mouth and letting Morris’s thick, heavy cock slide over his tongue while Morris threaded his fingers through his hair and murmured about was a _perfect_ servant he was, pleasuring his master so well.

Morris, observant as ever, noticed, his eyes widening in realization. “Oh,” he said. “Well then.”

George stiffened when Morris stepped forward and pushed him down, until he was sitting on the edge of the bed and Morris was standing there in front of him, lips curled up into a devious smile that made George’s insides flutter.

“Tell me, George,” Morris said, and his voice was rough and husky, and gods in hell, George almost _moaned_ at just the sound of it, “have you polished my brass today?”

 _Really?_ Geroge thought. _That’s the best you can do?_

But still….this could prove interesting. “No, I have not.”

He looked up at Morris, blinking innocently.

Morris reached out and slid his hand through George’s hair in that perfect way he knew George liked, just a little too much force, and a little too much scrape of fingernails against scalp, and tugged his face forward.

“Rectify that.”

George didn’t hesitate. He slid forward and fell to his knees in front of Morris, his hands reaching up to unlace breeches. “Like this,” he said, leaning forward to mouth along the rigid length, still covered by rough cloth, “ _sire_?”

Morris gasped, and George smirked as he finally pulled his cock free. He didn’t tease. He’d never been one for teasing (although Morris most certainly _was_ ). Efficient as always, he swallowed Morris’s cock to the root in one smooth stroke.

Morris made a strangled noise above him and clenched his fingers in his hair. Tears sprang to the corners of George’s eyes and his own cock hardened painfully in his breeches.

“Yes,” Morris moaned above him. “Gods, you’re good at this. So good at taking my cock and pleasing me, with your tongue, with your arse…this is where you should always be. On your knees, pleasing me.”

George hummed in his throat, forcing a high, keening noise out of Morris’s throat.

“You’d make the perfect servant, the perfect cocksucker, always begging and greedy for it–”

George bobbed his head.

“–and, oh gods, you’d love to do nothing but suck cock and get fucked all day, wouldn’t you?”

George didn’t resist when Morris gripped his hair and pulled him down until his cock was lodged in the back of George’s throat, and he couldn’t breathe but he didn’t care because the scent of Morris was all around and the taste of Morris was in his mouth, and Morris was coming, coming down his throat and all he could do was swallow and _take it_ , and really, why would he want to do anything else?

When Morris finally allowed him to pull of his cock, he coughed and gasped for air, palming his cock through his trousers.

“Morris,” he whined. “Morris, please.”

Morris looked at him and smirked, wiping a thumb across the corner of George’s mouth, where a drop of seed clung.

“Turn around and bend over. We’ll get you taken care of real good.”

* * *

**08.**

 

" _Aredian_!"

The guards scattered, recognizing a man on the warpath and not wanting to get in his way.

Balinor stormed through the castle's labyrinthine hallways and barged into Aredian's room. 

"Looking for me?" Aredian asked, arching a mocking brow. Balinor had never wanted to knock that aggravating, self-superior, arrogant brow from Aredian's face more than at this moment.

Balinor took a deep breath that did nothing to calm his fury and glanced around. Aredian's belongings were packed, and it appeared as if he had been fussing, waiting for Balinor to arrive.

Balinor slammed the door shut behind him. "What did you say to Nimueh? There's talk that she'll have you beheaded --"

"Oh, nothing important," Aredian said, shrugging his shoulders. Balinor stared at him until he caved in. "I might have suggested that having one's nose up the Queen's cunt is certainly a fast route to riches."

Balinor groaned and sank against the door. "Gods, Aredian. I warned you about your mouth --"

"I seem to recall your preference for my mouth around your cock," Aredian said, his grin mischievous, his eyes sad. 

Balinor shook his head. "Yes, but..."

"You spoke to the King on my behalf, I imagine." Aredian turned away. His fingers lingered on one of the canvas sacks on the bed, twisting and curling the fabric over and over. Rare was it for Aredian to show his true emotions, but Balinor had learned how to read the man, and his twitchy fingers were a sure sign that he was upset. "What did he say?"

Balinor stared at the packed bags. He swallowed the lump in his throat. "I think you already know."

"Tried your best, didn't you?" Aredian asked, his voice calm. His fingers smoothed out the bag. Balinor tried not to think too much of Aredian's strained tone.

"You know I did," Balinor said. Aredian was so close to a knighthood. He was the tournament's champion. He'd worked so hard for years to be chosen to come to Camelot -- and all of it was ruined in an instant by Aredian's foul temper and quick tongue. "Couldn't you... apologize?"

Aredian snorted.

"Yes, well. I thought I would waste my breath and ask." Balinor rubbed his forehead, trying to wipe away the growing ache. 

Aredian crowded into Balinor's space and said, "As long as that witch sits beside the Queen, the future doesn't bode well for either of us. Leave with me."

Balinor glanced once again at the bags on the bed. Aredian covered Balinor's mouth with a demanding kiss before he could argue against Aredian's plan. The kisses were harsh, urgent, hungry, and when they broke for breath, Aredian's pale blue eyes bore into Balinor, searching for an answer.

"I can't --"

Aredian scoffed, as if he'd known all along that Balinor _couldn't_. Balinor was the King's Dragonlord. He had Kilgarrah to guard and control, the land to watch over. 

"I'm sorry --"

"No," Aredian said, making short work of Balinor's cloak and armour, letting it all fall to the ground. His fingers were at Balinor's belt before Balinor had a sense of the whirlwind that Aredian had become. "No. Those will not be the last words I will hear you say."

Aredian's hand shoved into Balinor's breeches. Balinor was rendered weak-kneed by the expert stroke and twist of Aredian's callused hand. There was a brief respite when Aredian paused, and Balinor turned them around.

Balinor crushed kisses on Aredian's mouth. It was his chance to tear at Aredian's belt, to shove his breeches down, to lick and lap at a long, thin cock until Aredian moaned and trembled.

There was only the slightest lubrication from spit and magic around Aredian's puckered hole. Balinor aligned himself, rested his forehead on Aredian's shoulder, and shoved in hard and deep, damning this man and that witch for ruining everything they had.

They fucked hard and quick. Their harsh groans mixed with the sounds of slapping flesh and thrusting slams that shoved Aredian against the door. A pull of Aredian's cock pulsed and squeezed and Balinor moaned and sighed, holding on to Aredian's legs around his waist as long as he could.

Balinor laid on the floor afterward, his breeches undone. He watched in despair as Aredian dressed, shouldered his bags, and limped to the door the way he did when he'd been fucked good and hard.

"Where will you go?" Balinor asked. 

Aredian didn't meet his eyes. "It's best if you don't know."

* * *

**09.**

Moans fill the humid night air, drifting through the clearing and filling the empty space until it’s bursting with sexual energy. Will’s skin is covered in a fine sheen of sweat, uniform pants sticking to his legs and hair matted to his brow.

He cries out as Sophia pushes him into a tree and the bark scrapes against his bare back, cutting into his skin. Blood oozes from the scrapes and trickles down the valley of his spine while soft lips run along the side of his neck, tickling his flesh in the most delicious way. He tilts his head to the side, a shameless invitation for more.

“Join us.” Sophia hisses over his skin, the coolness of her breath making him shiver and break out in goosebumps despite the Louisiana heat. Tips of faery fang scrape over his skin and he whimpers in want.

He had come to Bon Temps to be closer to his last remaining relatives; Sookie and Jason Stackhouse. Jason got him a job as a deputy and he tried to live a relatively normal life, but with all the Vampires, Werewolves and other supernatural stuff running around it’s difficult at times.

“I-- I can’t.” Will stutters out, trying to hold on to any semblance of thought as she runs her dainty hands over his arms and down his chest. Bright green eyes bore into his, as if reaching for his soul.

Much to his surprise and horror he’s learned that he’s part fae and the faeries want him to join their super weird, super creepy, nightclub slash faery safe haven. He had thought it would be no problem to ignore their advances, but that illusion was shattered when he met Sophia.

“I will convince you William,” she purrs into his ear before sucking it in her mouth and nibbling until he begins to whine and squirm.

Will has been enamored with her ever since the shimmering blue portal opened and she stepped through. She wasn’t like the others, she didn’t try to hide her devious and dark side. The air around her screamed danger, while still carrying the sickeningly sweet scent all faeries emanate. He couldn’t help but to keep coming back for more.

“You can try,” he says just to see the way her eyes spark with challenge and her grin turn feral.

Her gaze doesn’t leave his as she sinks to her knees, silver gown fanning out around her and pretty lips mouthing at his cock. Slender fingers glide up the inside of his thigh, just barely brushing over his balls as they make their way to his zipper. The slide of the zip is noisy in the still night air, the pop of the button nearly deafening with the promise it brings. She pulls his pants down, material catching on his damp skin as they go.

He sighs in contentment and sweet relief as she takes his cock in hand and strokes gently. He is a man starved and she is his salvation. Sophia continues to look up at him from under her lashes, looking far more innocent than should be possible as she wraps her mouth around the head of his cock.

Air tries to escape him, breath coming in heavy gasps as she swirls her tongue around his tip and laps at the precome that’s gathered at the slit. She relaxes her jaw and sinks down along his length until he’s fully enveloped in the wet heat of her mouth. She pulls back, then takes him all the way down her throat and swallows around him until Will can’t remember his own name.

His entire world narrows to the throbbing pulse echoing through his body. He tries to hold her gaze, tries not to look away just like she wants, but his orgasm hits him with such ferocity he’s forced to close his eyes and throw his head back to keep from coming out of his skin. Distantly, he hears himself scream.

When he’s finally coherent enough to open his eyes, Sophia is still on her knees lapping up his come from her fingers. She looks magnificent.

She stands gracefully and extends her hand to him. “Come with me.” 

Her eyes shimmer with promises he’s not sure she’ll keep, but he wants to believe her, and he wants this deeply satisfied feeling every day for the rest of his life.

He takes her hand and walks through the portal.

* * *

**10.**

Warnings: Totally consensual, but with a definite dubconnish vibe.

"I said, do not disturb us." 

Helios turned back to his guest. He searched for fear in her hesitant smile, but found only a nervous anticipation that warmed his loins. "Are you done lying to me, Guinevere?"

She was even more beautiful when she looked at him, defiant. "You don’t need to know about my life before. That's over now."

He gave a slow, pleased nod. "And you must choose a new life. Come here." 

She stepped around the low table, cautious, but with no indecision as he drew her onto his lap. As her thighs spread to straddle him, he smelled the scent betraying her arousal.

"Some fool has wronged you. He has taken your love and thrown you away like refuse."

"No. He is a good man. But there was another man, a dear friend--"

"You are a woman of passion." He brushed his lips over her neck until the heat of his breath made her shiver. "I would never make the error of leaving you unsatisfied."

"I never meant to hurt him." Her hands clenched on his shoulders. "But he hurt me, too. He betrayed me, too."

"I have offered you hospitality."

Her lips quirked as she followed his gaze to the swell of her breasts. "And your hospitality comes with a price?"

"This is not the only means of payment. But why not satisfy the ache in both of us, if you choose?"

Her gaze flicked to the bed in the corner, then down to where his prick battled to free itself and reach the heat of her. "I do ache. I waited for him for such a long time." 

Then she slid the fabric from her shoulders to free her breasts for him. 

"Such beauty. You were meant for great things, Guinevere."

"I thought I was." She arched her back as he suckled her. "Once."

"When I make love to you, you will be the highest lady in Albion."

"I feel wanton," she murmured. "And why shouldn’t I be? He had women, over and over. And he had Merlin, all along."

He freed his stiff prick from its confinement, then kissed her. "I am a generous man, my sweet. I will give you everything you need." 

When she was naked save for the jewels he had given her, he guided her down onto his prick.

She closed her eyes as she eased onto him. He held her hips and pushed up into her in tiny pulses. His thumb rubbed her, building her pleasure until wild gasps fell from her lips.

He rose, carried her to the bed, and laid her down in the furs. "I thought to make you my serving wench, but now I would have you as my concubine."

She stared up at him with her wide shining eyes as he sank between her legs once more.

"I would conquer Albion in your name." He fucked harder, working them both toward the climax of their pleasure. 

"I don’t need conquests." Her body writhed, telling him what she needed.

He pulled out and teased his cock over her clit. "Not even this lover who cast you down?" 

"No--"

"We will ride into his keep." His prick sank back into her. "You by my side, exalted as a queen, belly swollen and heavy with my offspring."

She cried out, tormented by his words and deep penetration. He pulled out again.

"Shall I come on your stomach?" He slid back in. "Or shall I come inside you to seal our pact?"

"I--oh, gods." She sobbed with arousal. 

"Make your choice, Guinevere. On your belly--or in it." His balls tightened, aching with the seed he needed to deliver to her womb.

She whimpered, nails scraping down his back. The sting only pushed him closer to climax.

"On your belly or in it," he growled, fucking her hard. "Tell me now."

"In it!" she cried, wrapping a leg around his hips to pull him deeper. "In me, inside me, now, please."

Her body began to spasm with her pleasure, the perfect moment for his release. He groaned with relief as he shot streams of seed into her belly. There was nothing like breeding a woman, with her consent and cooperation.

He savored his last pulses into her body as she relaxed beneath him. "Damn you, Arthur," he heard her whisper.

Arthur, was it? A common name around here. He grinned and squeezed his balls to make sure he had emptied them completely into her.

This Arthur had no idea what was coming.

* * *

**11.**

Warning: Infidelity

When it comes to sex, Percival has one rule. No married men. Not because the sex isn’t fantastic—it is, married men are so desperate for cock, they make the best sluts—but because he hates the guilt.

Arthur isn’t wearing a ring when they meet. At Merlin and Gwaine’s anniversary party. At the gayest bar in Soho.

That’s a valid defense of his actions…isn’t it?

Arthur isn’t dancing like the others, instead sitting at the bar nursing a beer, chatting and smiling and looking so damn delicious, Percival has to constantly adjust his hard-on. The one time he catches Arthur glancing in his direction, he makes sure he’s not quite so discreet about it.

Five minutes later, the gents’ door swings open.

“Bit loud out there,” Arthur says, not quite capable of lifting his eyes higher than Percival’s chest.

Percival leans against the edge of the sink. It brings him closer to Arthur’s level—toilets are great for the intimidation factor, not so hot for putting nervous guys at ease.

Arthur glances down. His nostrils flare and the tip of his tongue appears when it swipes over his lower lip.

Percival tries not to grin. His stance also puts the long bulge of his erection on prominent display.

“Lock the door,” he instructs. Arthur obeys after just a moment’s hesitation. “Now on your knees.”

This second command is met with more resistance, Arthur’s brows drawing together into a frown, his hand lingering on the door handle. For a second, Percival wonders if he read him wrong, but then Arthur swallows, shudders once, lets his arm drop back to his side.

“Look…” But Arthur’s voice fades away, failing or whatnot, and that’s when Percival susses it out, that he’s still fresh, maybe newly come out or off a recent break, and he wants this badly enough to ignore his reservations.

“Don’t.”

Straightening, Percival walks around Arthur and bends down to lick across his sweaty nape. Arthur groans, and his shoulders tremble, his head dropping to expose more skin to Percival’s tongue. He complies, gladly, taking away each salty drop, inhaling the musky scent of a man desperate from the want of it. His arms steal around the broad chest to draw Arthur closer, back to front, muscle to muscle, and it feels so good, this time the trembling is mutual.

“How about I get on my knees first?” he whispers.

Arthur’s moan sounds like assent. The way his hands mold over Percival’s to undo his jeans and shove them down to his ankles is definitely a yes.

Percival slides down, taking his time to map his hands over the hard body the clothes had hidden away. Arthur’s cock is thick and throbbing, the head wet with pre-come when he fists it and pulls the foreskin back to play with the slit.

But that’s not what Percival wants right now, not what he meant at all. Arthur’s ass has been calling to him from the moment he saw it, and he finally can bury his face between the full cheeks, breathing him in, tracing his tongue down the crack to the tiny clenching hole.

“Oh, fuck,” Arthur hisses. He grabs the edge of the sink, angling forward, spreading wider for Percival’s hungry mouth. Then comes… “Please.” And Percival can’t say no, because really, that’s the most perfect word in the entire English language.

He licks up and down, around the opening and over, letting the coarse hairs tickle his cheeks and tongue. When he uses his thumbs to dig into Arthur’s quivering ass, he has to sit back enough to watch the pucker tighten then relax, because the promise of it all has his cock aching, his mouth watering to eat him for hours to come. 

He doesn’t get hours. Within two minutes of his tongue plunging inside, Arthur strokes his cock twice and shoots all over the sink.

Percival folds over his back, soothing his hands up and down Arthur’s arms to calm him down.

“Sorry,” Arthur mutters. “I haven’t been with another bloke since before I got married.”

Percival freezes. _Fuck._ “You’re married?”

“Not that that stopped her from getting a girlfriend.”

So this was revenge. Even worse.

When he tries to let Arthur go, however, Arthur stops him. “It’s not what you think. We agreed we could each have this. Just ask Merlin.” And then, “Please.”

It’s also the most powerful word. Because it convinces him to break his one rule.

Well. That.

And it’s Arthur.

* * *

**12.**

Percival had never been with anyone, not like that. He'd only come close once. There'd been a girl in his village, back when he lived with his mother and father, back when he worked in the fields and lounged with the pigs and chewed hay with the horses. He liked animals and nature and hard work. He'd never even spent much time thinking about girls, until the one from the other side of the village started coming to watch him work.

At first, he hadn't liked the scrutiny, but then he noticed that she wasn't taking notice of his tasks and his technique and his trade secrets. She was just looking at him with a shy, hopeful look.

It took a few weeks because they were both shy and didn't quite know what to say, but eventually they made plans to meet in a little clearing in the woods. He hadn't really been nervous because he knew that she was just as new and uncertain as he was, and he wasn't even sure what he should be expecting to happen, anyway.

What happened was that she let him take off all her clothes and touch her soft, pale, warm skin. He touched her all over until he found where she was wet and hot, and then he touched her just there. She let him taste her there, too.

She had seemed eager to touch and taste him in return, but when he'd taken off his clothes, she'd mumbled excuses about needing to get home before someone noticed that she was missing.

Before then, he hadn't ever thought that there was a problem with his body. Of course, he knew he was taller and bigger than other boys in the village, but it had never bothered him. He had never even thought about the other ways in which they might be... smaller. But the village girl had looked alarmed, even frightened, at the size of him.

~

Percival liked the daily training that Arthur ran for the knights. He liked to practice fighting with his friends, especially because he knew that they would never actually hurt him, at least not on purpose.

Mostly, Percival liked trainings because of the way Merlin sat off on the side, watching. He knew that Merlin was watching them all, but he couldn't help but feel that sometimes Merlin was watching just him with the same shy, hopeful expression as the girl from the village.

It did things to Percival that he couldn't quite explain away as clumsiness or distraction.

One night, after a long feast that left Percival feeling full and drunk and sleepy, Merlin asked if Percival could stop by Gauis' before going to bed, to help Merlin reach something from a high shelf.

Percival knew that Merlin and Gaius had at least one ladder, but he followed Merlin home anyway. He knew he wouldn't get to sleep with Merlin, not with the body he had, but maybe he would get to touch and taste Merlin, anyway. If he was really lucky, maybe he would even get to kiss Merlin. The girl in the village had almost given herself completely to Percival, but she had never kissed him.

Percival followed Merlin up the few stairs that led to where Merlin slept. The room was small and messy, but it looked welcoming and comfortable. Merlin was flushed with wine and nerves and Percival decided not to wait. He kissed Merlin swiftly, his hands coming to rest on Merlin's arms.

Merlin moaned deliciously against Percival's lips and back him into a wall. Percival made quick work of removing Merlin's shirt. Merlin wasn't soft or pale or warm, like the girl had been. He was hard and tanned and hot to the touch, from hours spent working under the sun and from something else, something exhilarating and powerful that was humming just out of reach of Percival's fingertips.

"Oh -- _oh!_ " Merlin groaned when his wandering hands finally came across Percival's cock.

"Sorry," Percival said quickly. "You don't--"

"Why are you apologizing?" Merlin asked, his voice a breathless whisper as he scrambled to remove Percival's clothes.

"I said you don't have to," Percival protested, trying to cover himself with his hands.

Merlin grabbed Percival's wrists and pinned them to the wall. "But I want to," he explained.

He didn't look alarmed or frightened. He looked hungry and possessive and wild.

Percival believed him.

* * *

**13.**

Warnings: dubcon elements, Season 5 character spoilers.

He sees their hunger for him. Arthur’s men: loyal knights and true. Sometimes he hears their thoughts, but they’re ignorant of the depth of his power. They watch from across the fire, or when he mounts his horse, a gift from Camelot’s honourable King Arthur, the same man who buggers his manservant when he thinks the rest are asleep. The idiot doesn’t even know what Merlin is. 

The rest are not much brighter. Oh, they avert their eyes when he catches them staring. Fools. As if Percival could hide the thick ridge of his cock, or Leon his embarrassed flush. 

The first time he lets them fuck him is for revenge, to punish Arthur and claim the loyalty of the knights. They don’t know the dark magic he weaves as they rut into him, releasing their seed and sealing their doom. 

After that, it doesn’t end. The spell takes time to work. 

Mordred pushes back against the swollen prick working inside, inhaling sharply at the burn and the burst of pleasure when it slides right up against the place that makes his cock harden. Pendulous bollocks slap against his—the beginning of a frantic, rough fuck. He recognizes Elyan from the deep grunts that catch in the man’s throat with each thrust, sounds he can’t quite hold back. The forest echoes with the sounds of sex and the heavy breathing of the other knights around them, waiting with fraying patience. Oh, what would dear Arthur think of his men now? Or would he want to take a turn? 

Though he is blindfolded, Mordred can smell the musk of another cock near his face. He salivates as the owner rubs the slick head against his lips, encouraging him to open. 

Elyan isn’t experienced and never lasts long. His cock is fat and Mordred writhes on it, trying not to let his own pleasure show. He would rather they believe they are using him. He wants them to feel guilty, even as he greedily draws the cock—Leon’s, from the taste—deep into his throat. 

There’s no leverage so Mordred holds Leon’s hips, sucking and licking while Elyan moves faster. One, two, three punishing strokes and then Elyan emits a strangled cry, nearly falling onto Mordred’s back as he spends his release. The absence of Elyan’s cock is unpleasant, but then Leon moves round to take his turn.

Mordred feigns a grimace at the first entry, biting back a moan at the desperate sound Leon makes as his cock glides through Elyan’s come. Someone pets his flank, his hair, and he finds himself locked in Percival’s arms while Leon takes him, drawing it out with long thrusts he can feel deep in his bones. This will last—Leon likes to watch, let it build and then fuck with abandon. He likes to make sure Mordred feels pleasure. 

It’s almost tempting to feel loved, held carefully by Percival with arms that could crush a man’s skull, stroked by hands that know where to touch. Mordred hisses when someone, maybe Elyan, squeezes his cock, rubbing circles around the sticky head before drawing down along the shaft towards his bollocks. The pressure and his own helpless desire make his erection leak, drawn tight up against his stomach even though he’s bent over, Leon sliding in deep. 

Tomorrow he’ll insist it was the effect of the magic, the binding spell that makes his own arousal necessary, but tonight he’s nearly forgotten the words. Hot stripes of pleasure roll through his belly as his insides are painted with Leon’s warm seed. They will loathe him when they discover the truth. If they survive. 

He tells himself he doesn’t care. 

Percival steadies him as Leon pulls out, still shuddering with the final spasms of his climax. A soft mouth presses kisses along his spine, and then Percival lowers him to his knees. The knight’s enormous erection brushes against Mordred’s inner thigh as he moves into position, first using the tip of his cock to push back in the leaking come, making sure Mordred is full. 

The breach is intense, almost painful again, though Mordred’s muscles are pliant and his spine has gone rubbery. Percival groans and rocks forward, inching his giant prick inside—Gods, the stretch—until his bollocks are nestled tightly against Mordred’s arse. The hands on Mordred’s hips move him gently up and down and a soft voice whispers _a ghrá mo chroí._

Under the blindfold, Mordred’s cheeks are wet. 

It’s almost like being loved.

* * *

**14.**

Elyan took a deep breath and knocked on the door to Gaius’ chambers.

“Enter.”

Elyan walks into the room, being careful to shut the door after him.

“Gaius.”

“Sir Elyan, can I be of assistance?”

“Is – is Merlin around?” He asked, not wanting to have more of an audience than he needed. This was embarrassing enough as it is.

“No, I believe he is with the King, if you need him.”

“No. I was just – asking.” Gaius doesn’t respond to this, he just gestured towards a seat.

“Sit.” He said, sitting down himself.

“I’m having problems. When...passing water.” He forced out, eyes focused on the floor. He could feel the humiliation crawl along his skin.

“What kind of problems?”

“It’s just – difficult. I have to strain, sometimes, despite having a need to go.”

“Any pain?”

Elyan shook his head, shifting in his seat. He chanced a look at Gaius. The man looked impassive, no hint of amusement, which reassured Elyan a little.

“It sounds like a stricture.”

“What’s that?”

“A slight blocking of the urinal passage, caused by damage – I imagine you’ve had some injury and the body hasn’t healed correctly.”

Well, Gaius sounded calm, which was a relief. Elyan assumed he wasn’t dying then.

“So what now?”

“The cure is simple, but may be uncomfortable.” Gaius stood up and pulled out a book. He flipped open to the relevant page and showed Elyan a picture. Elyan felt his jaw fall open.

The picture was – well – there was a penis and someone was inserting something -

“I’ll need to insert a rod into the opening of your penis, and gradually force the stricture open.”

Elyan spluttered incoherently, and jumped from his seat. Hearing it out loud was worse, made him want to curl up and never take his trousers off again.

“What? No, I’m – I’ll – sort something out.” He said, getting up and all but running out of the room. There had to be another way.

~~~

The problem doesn’t go away. Elyan tried anything he could think of. He’d tried drinking water – so much he felt sick, stomach aching and swollen with it. He waited until he was desperate to go, barely able to walk with it. The resulting stream was pitiful, and it took him what felt like hours to empty himself.

He took himself in hand, wondering if the force of spilling himself would help – open it. He forced himself to keep his eyes open as he came, shuddering as he watched the slow pulsing.

He let his head fall back to the pillow, groaning loudly. He was going to have to go back to Gaius.

~~~

“Gaius.”

“Sir Elyan.”

“My condition has not improved.” He said, forcing himself to meet Gaius’ eyes. Gaius nodded.

“Do you want to try the procedure?”

“If there’s no other option.”

“There isn’t. I assure you, it doesn’t hurt, it just feels unusual.” Gaius said, reassuringly. He turned to the table and made a space. “Remove your trousers and lie on the table.” He said, walking to one of his cabinets.

Elyan stripped his trousers, and sat on the bed. Gaius returned with a number instruments. He opened a pot of oil and poured it over a thin rod, covering it thoroughly.

“This will require me to hold your penis and will be a little cold.” Gaius said. Elyan nodded and covered his overheated face with an arm, trying to relax.

He jumped at the first firm touch of Gaius’ hand, and bit his lip as he waiting for the inevitable. Gaius didn’t hesitate – as soon as he felt the rod against the slit of his cock, it was sliding inside him.

Elyan couldn’t stop the noise that escaped. Another hand pressed down on his stomach.

“Do not move.” Gaius said firmly. Elyan swallowed.

“Sorry.”

Gaius said nothing. The rod slipped deeper. The friction was unbearable, as was the feeling of fullness in a way he’d never felt before. To his horror he felt the familiar hot tingle of arousal rush through him, the heat from his face spreading, down his chest to settle in the pit of his stomach. He suppressed a shudder, feeling himself jerk as he stiffened around the metal.

Gaius just waited, silently. When Elyan had settled, Gaius started to remove the rod.

Elyan peeked out as the rod was slowly pulled out, watching the slick metal emerging from his stiff cock. Gaius ignored Elyan’s mortified whimper.

“I’ll insert a bigger one now.”

* * *

**15.**

Balinor's hand fists the microphone. His fingers slide underneath the mouth piece, his mouth ghosting over it like a caress. His voice is a desperate wail over the drums and the low throb of the bass that resounds in his chest. Balinor can feel the beat like thousands of fingers running over his body. It's like closing his eyes when he's buzzed and feeling the world turn. His heart matches the beat, chords thrumming faster and faster, the yells as he hits the chorus are hands on his body, pressing and wanting.

"I'd lay a thousand dragons at your feet," Balinor yells, energy bubbling from his stomach, electric shocks that leave his body humming in response. He can feel heat coiling in his stomach and he glances at his band members, all too far away. Balinor finally understands why people say that after a war all you need is a good fuck. If singing is like fighting, like taking, like conquering then yes, all you need is a good fuck.

Balinor's bandmates keep playing as he walks off the stage. He can see the headlines already, _Kilgharrah's Lead Singer Abandons Fans_ , but he goes anyway, heat pooling at his feet, his heart throbbing.

Uther is leaning against the door of their tour bus, his blond hair falling over his forehead, his pale blue eyes watching Balinor as though he knows. It's the same picture Balinor has seen hundreds of times before, Uther leaning against his bedroom door, against the club doors where Balinor's band first performed. There's a smile on Uther's lips, the expression on his unlined face open and welcoming. Balinor knows he'd lay a thousand dragons at Uther's feet, he means it now as he meant it when he wrote the song.

"Where's Gaius," Balinor asks.

"Back stage making sure the lights work," it's an answer and a plead all the same.

Balinor moves forward as Uther opens the bus door. They stumble on the steps, Balinor's hands on Uther's hair as he kisses him. Their tongues slide together and Balinor feels a shiver run through him at the way Uther presses back. Balinor's already hard, wants to suck Uther off, turn around and be fucked until he screams. He wants to paint the bathroom door with his come and watch Uther lick it off, wants Uther to come on his face, to eat him out. It doesn't even fucking matter because Balinor just _wants_. He can feel the bass from here and it turns him on.

"I want you," he whispers.

"Yeah," Uther answers.

They clamber up steps, fighting their way out their clothes until Balinor has Uther bent over the table where they play cards with the others. Balinor's on his knees, his hands spreading Uther's arse. He closes his eyes at the moan from Uther when Balinor circles his thumb around Uther's entrance. His lips are wet when his tongue pushes in next to his thumb. Balinor licks, sucks, swirls his tongue around Uther's hole, pushes his tongue in and out until his face is numb, until his cock is throbbing, until he's so close just from this.

He bites at Uther's arse, rolls the flesh between his teeth and moans in answer to Uther's cry. He gets up, legs shaking, and ruts against the cleft of Uther's arse, Balinor's body folding over Uther's. He feels Uther pushing back against him and Balinor wants everything at once.

"Want you to fuck my mouth so hard I won't be able to sing without thinking of you," Balinor rasps out. "Want you to come on my face."

"Fuck," Uther answers turning to watch Balinor drop to his knees again.

Balinor opens his mouth, his eyes finding Uther's and the way Uther looks at him, with a face that commands and eyes that promise; he reminds Balinor of a king. 

He'll write a song about that promise, the darkness in Uther's eyes, the way he fucks into Balinor's mouth. Balinor will pen the way Uther's cock feels in his mouth, how it stretches the sides of his mouth, how when he flicks his tongue against the tip, Uther throws his head back and moans. He'll write about promises and the way Uther's cock hits the back of his throat, how his come is warm when it lands on Balinor's face, how Uther lets him fuck in between his legs until Balinor comes.

About how Balinor can still feel the bass beating in his chest.

* * *

**16.**

**Warnings:** Underage, religious themes.

No Sinner to Save  
Leon slipped out quietly, unnoticed, as he’d been for the last fifteen minutes. He didn’t dare breathe until the heavy door had made a nearly inaudible click behind him and then he leaned there, against the common room door for a moment. His breathing was heavy and he willed his nether regions to behave. Just when he was getting a grip on reality, he heard another loud moan from inside and panicked. His trainers slid on the wet linoleum as he ran hard and fast to the men’s room furthest from the common room and locked himself in a stall.

Leon dropped his head into his hands and grit his teeth. He’d been tempted before, but had been able to talk himself out of it. He’d been able to walk away from the situation, drop down to his knees and pray to God for forgiveness, like his parents had taught him. But he had never been so tempted before. He had never seen flesh against flesh, writhing and sweaty. He had never heard those sounds or saw fingers slip into wet heat. He had never ached to be part of something so filthy and hot. Sexy.

His head snapped up as the images assaulted his mind. He hadn’t even known that Morgana and Gwen were dating. They’d probably kept it a secret from him, because they knew how he felt, how he’d been taught to treat lesbians. Sinners. They were all sinners.

But now, he didn’t care. He could only see them pressed together on the sofa, half-clothed and panting, their hands moving over naked flesh. He could only hear Gwen groaning into Morgana’s neck, begging for _moremoremooooooore_ and the sound Morgana’s fingers made inside of Gwen’s dripping cunt.

Leon whimpered and beads of sweat formed at his hairline.

It was dirty and wrong and he would go to Hell. Leon knew it, knew all of it, but he couldn’t stop himself any longer. He unbuttoned the fly of his jeans and pushed them and his boxers down around his knees. His prick stood erect from his stomach, tilting up slightly to the ceiling, slit weeping.

Leon took a moment to close his eyes and pray. He asked God to take away his hard-on, so he would stay pure. He begged and pleaded, lips moving in his silent prayer, but his cock didn’t deflate like it had in the past. If anything, it only throbbed more, and Leon couldn’t, _wouldn’t_ , ignore it any longer.

He wet his hand in a long, slow lick of his tongue, remembering that Gwaine - during one of his merciless teasing sessions - had said it made for easier, _better_ friction, before gripping the base of his hard cock. He squeezed gently, giving himself one more chance to stop, before moving his hand up to the head of his prick and flicking his thumb over the slit. Leon sucked in a breath through his teeth, his back arching, fucking his cock into his hand, and a shudder ran down his spine. He took a deep breath, eyes clenched shut, and moved his hand again. He let his thumb spread the slick precome gathered at the head down his shaft. It was a feeling he’d never had before and, try as he might, he couldn’t stop the loud groan that spilled from his lips. He wanted to be disgusted with himself, but it just felt too good.

Unable - maybe unwilling - to drag it out any longer, Leon tightened his grip and started moving his hands quickly over his leaking prick, his thumb brushing the slit with everyone upward motion. He bit down on his lip to stop the streams of curses and moans from tumbling out; the sharp, copper taste of blood spilled into his mouth. It only pushed him harder and faster.

Leon’s stomach twisted in a weird pleasured pain as his hand moved across his dick until finally, _finally_ the pressure built like a wave and crested. His cock jumped in his hand and then painted the stall door with his come. He cried out, unable to hold it in, and his knees gave way. He fell to the dirty bathroom floor in a heap, his head in his hands again and his dick still standing at half-mast.

His body shook with sobs, even as he let his fingers wrap around his prick once more, tugging gently, sensitive.

He was going to Hell. God would never forgive him.

* * *

**17.**

Warnings: Voyeurism, exhibitionism 

"I dare you to get a facial"

"Not that much of a challenge, when Gwen kidnaps me for them once a month." Elyan didn't mean to let that part slip out, but 7 shots of tequila and this game of 'Truest Dare' was really getting stupid(maybe so was his mouth). 

Gwaine cocked a brow with a dirty thought plastered all over his face. "Gwen doesn't take you for THESE kinds of facials Elyan, unless there's some incest going on the rest of us aren't privy to."

And then it dawned on Elyan what disgusting stuff Gwaine was up to. It also dawned on the rest of those in his frat house that Elyan finally picked up on the challenge. "Oh, shit Gwaine! Seriously why the fuck do I always end up with your disgusting challenges?"

The game was 'Truest Dare'. It meant whatever dare was issued, the person saying the dare had to have already done it before. Meaning at some point in time Gwaine had received 'a facial'. The image made Elyan's stomach turn. Some guy's spunk dripping all over Gwaine's face was not a turn on, and the thought of that gunk all over his own face made him wrinkle his nose.

"Do you forfeit the challenge?" Leon asked with a raised glass of the punishment drink.

Elyan remembered the effects of Morgana's 'Devil's Brew'. A few seconds of grossness wasn't as bad as what could happen if he didn't remember anything at all about the night, and spent the next morning hugging the frat's toilet.

"I accept the challenge." Elyan nearly soberly replied.

"Devil's Brew is the devil!" Lancelot shouted as he passed out from drinking a shot of the stuff less than ten minutes before. Poor bastard should have let Leon lick his nipple.

"I nominate Percy for the applicator of the facial!" Merlin giggled into Arthur's side.

Arthur nodded with a drunk wave of a royal like hand, "I second the motion for Percy Lotion."

Elyan's eyes shot up to Percy who was sitting a little behind him and to the right on the couch. Now that he thought about it, he had been resting against Percy's leg most of the evening. The floor by the coffee table was rather comfortable and Percy and he just happened to normally sit that way. There wasn't anything odd about it. 

Percy blushed severely as more catcalls for him to whip out his junk and start wanking were made.

Elyan quickly turned his head forward, staring at all the empty bags of snacks, boxes of half eaten pizza, and various forms of alcohol littering every surface.

The sound of a zipper stilled the room for only a moment before more whoops and shouts of encouragement began.

Percy and he roomed together before getting into this house with Arthur and his cronies. They were friends. They were close enough that this wouldn't be a problem, but Elyan wanted to make sure Percy was ok with it. So he made the decision to turn around and look over his shoulder at Percy's eyes.

The taller and more muscular man was always talking to Elyan with his eyes. They liked to have short conversations about everything from the last test they took together to the silly shit one of the other Knights of Alpha house got caught doing. All of these things said with nothing more than a look. 

At the moment Percy was saying Elyan didn't have to do this. Elyan nonverbally replied with the same line. Percy smiled and looked down as his fist working his cock. He looked back up at Elyan and his eyes were saying something Elyan had never seen before. "I want this. I want you." 

Elyan gulped the air in his open and recently parched mouth. Percy's tugs were getting more frantic and the catcalls of the room blended to a pornographic static in Elyan's ears.

He shifted his weight to his knees turning his body a little more to watch his friend watching him as Percy pulled the full length of his shaft, flexing his biceps and thighs. He stood from the couch close to completion, cock dripping at Elyan's nose.

"I want you too." Elyan replied with his eyes right before closing them.

Percy moaned from his toes and warm splashes streaked across Elyan's face.

Now if only he could dare Percy to lick him clean.

* * *

**18.**

Warnings: a potion made them do it.

“They’re calling it Fairy Dust, Sire,” Gaius said, standing in front of the court. “It’s being marketed as a love potion in the lower town.” 

“Fairy Dust,” Arthur asked from the throne, incredulous. “What does it do?”

Gaius raised his eyebrow.

“It inflames the passions,” he said evenly, ignoring Merlin snickering beside him. “The individuals affected seek release until the potion wears off.”

Arthur shifted on his throne. “Is it dangerous?”

“The potion is fairly weak, lasting for only a few hours. I’ve been treating sore muscles, chafing, imbalance of the humours…”

“Keep me informed of any further developments, Gaius,” Arthur said, coughing into his fist and looking decidedly uncomfortable.

Gaius bowed.

-

A few days later, the first of the castle staff walked gingerly into Gaius’s chamber. George was flushed, embarrassed as he shuffled in, normally-stiff posture a little bowed, fast gait a little slower.

“Is everything alright?” Gaius asked. 

George straightened, his expression pinched in pain, his hands clasped behind his back. “I...,” he trailed off, cleared his throat. “I would like some salve, if possible.”

“Of course,” Gaius said, taking a small pot off the shelf. It was becoming harder to keep it in stock. “Chafing?” he prompted.

George gave a slight nod. “And some scratches… on my back... and elsewhere.”

“Did you get them polishing?” Merlin asked smirking, looking up from where he had been grinding herbs for the needed remedies. 

George turned a deep red but lifted his nose in the air. “Good day, Gaius,” he said, politely, taking the salve and turning on his heel. 

“Merlin, you should be kinder,” Gaius admonished, once George had fled. “One of your friends might be afflicted next.”

Merlin snorted. “I don’t know anyone that stupid.”

-

It sounded like a battle was taking place in the armory. Gaius was coming back from his rounds of the castle and heard the crashes of armor, the grunts of men fighting, and curses… many, many curses. 

Alarmed, Gaius peered through the small crack in the door. 

“Fuck, Percival! Fuck!” Gwaine crowed, head thrown back, bouncing on Percival’s lap. 

Percival’s large hands were wrapped around Gwaine’s hips, his breeches pushed to his knees, his tunic ripped where Gwaine’s fingers were clenching in the fabric, his muscles flexing violently with every forceful snap of his hips. Gwaine slammed down, meeting Percival thrust for thrust, one hand moving rapidly between them, bringing himself to completion while absolute filth spilled past his lips about the size and girth of Percival’s cock. 

Gaius quickly pulled the door closed, eyes wide. 

He needed to make more salve. 

Hours later, the pair hobbled in, looking red-faced and awkward. 

“Rough training session,” Gwaine said as he plucked the jar from Gaius’s outstretched hand. 

“Excruciating,” Percival echoed.

Gaius didn’t comment, merely raised an eyebrow knowingly, and the two shuffled away.

-  
Once the rumors circulated that Fairy Dust wasn’t a love potion but merely turned individuals into mindless rutting animals, the need for treatment began to diminish. Gaius was glad. He had his fill of uncomfortable conversations about rashes in awkward places and blushing women and stuttering men with sex-related injuries. 

Though the epidemic had lessened, it didn’t mean Merlin could shirk his duties. 

“Where is that boy?” Gaius muttered as he walked to Arthur’s chambers. He had sent Merlin out hours ago to collect herbs to replenish the diminished stores and he had yet to return.

The king’s chamber door was not guarded which was odd in itself but so were the sounds emitting from within – moaning, grunting, the slap of skin against skin, a loud shout of _yes!_ followed by _fuck!_

Eyebrow in his hairline, Gaius knocked and waited. There was a crash from inside, a flurry of loud curses and then the door swung inward. Arthur stood in the doorway, blocking any view to the inside, wearing only a shift that fell to his knees. His hair was sweat-soaked and disheveled, his breathing labored, a flush high on his cheeks and a purpling bruise on his throat. 

“Gaius,” he squeaked. “Can I help you with something?”

“I’m looking for Merlin, Sire.”

Arthur swallowed, and he shifted, leaned against the door frame. “Merlin is indisposed at the moment.”

“Indisposed?”

“Yes,” Arthur gasped. “Important business. I’ll send him to you as soon as he is available.”

Gaius bowed, the door slamming shut almost immediately, but not before he heard Arthur shout. 

“Merlin! Get back on that bed. I’m not done with you!”

Gaius huffed. 

Stupid, indeed.

* * *

**19.**

"It's so _kind_ of you to come and lend a hand, Sir Elyan," Hunith says, and Will wants to spit, because kindness has nothing to do with it. The knight's here on Arthur's orders and they all know it. 

"Come to remind us all where we stand, isn't that it?"

"Give it a rest," says Merlin. "We've only just arrived. Let's have something to eat before we start talking about politics."

"Everything's politics," Will mutters, checking out Elyan's shapely arse as he follows them into Hunith's house.

Because, as annoying as it is to have a physical reminder of Camelot's new status as "protector" of Ealdor, it's not like the bloke is especially hard to look at. And after a few hours in the fields the next day Will has to recognise that he's grateful for the help. Elyan's got a fighter's strength but, unlike Arthur, he handles a scythe as gracefully as a sword.

"Slower," says Will. "Even in a good year like this, we can't afford to scatter grain in the dirt like you're doing." 

Without a word, Elyan incorporates the suggestion, still cutting efficiently but with a shorter, more careful arc, so the ear falls close to the stalk. 

"You like that, don’t you, taking orders? I bet Prince What's-His-Name _loves_ you."

If Merlin were with them he'd just roll his eyes. Yes, obviously, Will knows Arthur's name. Obviously Will's spent a good part of the past four years thinking about the man so special Merlin would give his life for him, would expect Will to give his life for him, and is willing to give up the best years of his life serving him, whatever that means. Obviously (particularly while lying alone at night), Will's pondered in some detail what "serving Arthur" might mean. 

Merlin’s on the other side of the field, though. " _King_ Arthur," Elyan says coldly.

Right. Obviously Will knows that too. He shrugs and turns back to his work. "I’d never want to work for royalty, myself. 'Bring me my armour, Elyan! Polish my boots!' Gods, I don’t know how you stand for it.”

"I'm his knight, not his servant."

"Yeah? What's that like then?"

Elyan swings the scythe. "He knows fighting like you know farming. So he wants us to do it better, just like you. 'Elyan, you're not guarding your left side, take it again," he'll say. Or he'll tell us which positions to take when we're fighting in a group. It's not demeaning, it's just…it feels good, knowing where I'm supposed to be." 

"Yeah, I can see why you'd pick that over running your own forge and supplying a village of workers with the tools they need."

"Don't be an ass. There are plenty of blacksmiths in Albion, and you know Arthur's a better man than you'll ever be."

Elyan had slept in the barn the first night, which was bollocks. The second night, after dinner with Merlin and Hunith, they stop to pick up his things so he can move to Will's, and in the dark of the hayloft Elyan says, "You wanted it too."

"Wanted what, you arrogant sod?"

He feels a hand on his shoulder, and Elyan says, "Wanted to be a knight once, just like your dad, Merlin told me. Only natural, that. I wanted to be a blacksmith until I found out how powerless blacksmiths really are."

"I never wanted—" Will licks his lips, finding his mouth dry and his stomach tight. He tries to shrug Elyan's hand away but the weight just gets heavier. 

"Get on your knees, Sir William."

The fall is abrupt, but the hay softens the impact. "Does Arthur talk to you like that?"

He thinks Elyan's shaking his head. It doesn't matter; it's them here now, Elyan's warmth and the scent of hard work crowding close behind him. "See how good it feels?" Elyan reaches around to cup the bulge in Will's trousers. "Doesn't matter what he's telling you to do, not when it's already what you want. And you want this."

"You're not my king, you're nothing to me," says Will, but the truth is Elyan's commands do mean something to him. So do his armour and his bright red cape, and so does the pressure of his erection against Will's backside. Will shoves his trousers down and rocks, forward into Elyan's hand, back against Elyan's cock. 

"Nice," Elyan says, "steady," his strokes firm and confident as his voice. "That's it. We'll make a knight of you yet."

* * *

**20.**

The first day of the job, Gwaine had taken him aside for some friendly advice: go to Leon whenever possible (good bloke, has an in with both Arthur and Morgana, even a measure of respect from Uther himself), join the company’s footie league (best way to approach the princess), _hands off Merlin_ (seriously mate, not if you want your bollocks intact).

It seemed easy enough to follow. Percy was good at falling in line, going through middle men. He’d already looked up the team and was anxious to get back out on the pitch. And he was rubbish at dating -- avoiding mixing it up with colleagues wouldn’t be a hardship, he’d never jeopardise his job.

His resolve lasted all of an hour until he actually met Merlin. He’d been charmed from the very start, from that first knock of a sharp elbow into his side, that enormous grin that crinkled those gorgeous blue eyes into ridiculous slits. Merlin was the very picture of the bloke Percy always went for but never got more than a one off from, maybe a string of shags where they’d ask to be held down, fucked into oblivion. The sort of bloke that loved to hang off his arms, not his words.

Except Merlin was beautiful and brilliant and somehow saw the same in everyone else. He was hopeless at football, hopeless at walking in a straight line truth be told. He talked with his hands, moved his mouth in distracting ways, hung off everyone’s last word as if they spun gold with their lips.

And he was taken. He was very much taken -- the words looped in his mind with the shock. Percy had thought-- He was a bloody fool, but he’d thought when Gwaine told him hands off that he meant only that Merlin was Arthur’s best mate, suffered under his fierce protection. He never once thought they were _together_ , not Arthur with his series of blondes -- intimidating in their attractiveness, all curves and sharp dresses and sharper smiles, every click of their heels screaming of fine breeding.

He should go. If he valued his job, he would leave _right the fuck now_ , but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight of Merlin’s long pale back. Percy memorised every knob of his spine, knew he’d be able to pick it out of a lineup forever after.

He never thought Merlin would be so graceful outside of his ill-fitting suits, never imagined he’d be so wanton as he rutted his hips eagerly against Arthur’s clothed thighs, his own fingers working himself open. Percy stared at the sight of those long fingers easing in and out, getting decidedly desperate and losing their rhythm. He never imagined Merlin in bed at all. It had seemed too disrespectful. He’d only had thoughts of courting Merlin properly, asking Arthur for permission as strange and antiquated as that had seemed. He thought Arthur with his oddly chivalrous, mediaeval ways would appreciate it, and he had to bite back the sudden bark of wild laughter at the thought.

He didn’t know what was better ( _worse_ ) -- the sight or the sounds. Merlin kept murmuring sweet endearments between his gasps, his pleas for _more_ and _harder_ and _god, Arthur, don’t tease, I need it, fuuuuck_ \-- Merlin seemed to be falling apart while Arthur was still calm and collected, still fucking dressed, that bloody wanker, how could he--

“You’re so desperate for it aren’t you, sweetheart? You always want it so much. Go on, then,” Arthur urged, laughing.

“God, yes,” was the breathy response as Merlin practically clawed at the zip of Arthur’s trousers, and Percy finally stumbled back out of the office with the image of Merlin sinking down on Arthur’s cock seared on his retinas, the sound of Arthur’s laughter trailing behind him.

* * *

**21.**

Warnings: D/s dynamics, humiliation, toys

Morgause is supposed to be the enemy. 

And she is. She really, really is. 

Leon has to see her in the courtroom, defending criminals that everyone at Pendragon Law knows are guilty of an unholy number of horrible things. Leon has to sit next to Arthur Pendragon on the prosecutor's bench and watch her calm, impassive face.

It's bad enough that they're sleeping together. But the shame doesn't come completely from that—no, the humiliation comes from what he wants after he gets home from long day losing to her in the courtroom.

He doesn't have to walk into her bedroom. It's a choice. She's there, waiting for him, if he needs it. If not, she'll come out and they'll have dinner, fight about whether or not his boss his sleeping with the coffee-cart boy, and have really fantastic sex. 

Leon goes into the room. 

"Undress," she says and Leon swallows whatever is bubbling up in his throat to comply. She's strikingly gorgeous: bare except for her bra and he can see the dip of her spine, her hair cascading in perfect tendrils—not a single hint that she's been doing battle with one of the most prestigious law firms in the world. 

He's naked and on his knees, crawling because _he wants to_ , before she can call out the order.

"Look at you," Morgause whispers, and he desperately wants to meet her eyes because he knows they'll be bright with approval. He keeps his eyes downcast.

"So eager and ready for me," she says, fingers carding through his messy hair. "Such a good little boy." 

He swallows, unable to stop himself from pushing up into her fingers. They tighten and her fingernails drag into his scalp. He gasps but holds back the whine that threatens. 

"No, Leon. Tonight you'll make noise for me." 

It's beyond an order. It's a faithful promise. 

He let's her fingers twist, hard pressing, as she guides him forward. He shuffles, his knees digging into the hardwood of her bedroom floor. For a few moments, he closes his eyes to enjoy the pain the radiates down his spine and settles low in his balls. She smells amazing, like sharp citrus and clean linen. 

"Open your eyes." 

When he does, she's guided him between her soft thighs. He stares resolutely at her stomach, keeping his wandering eyes under control. He has no desire to wait any longer. He just _wants_ and there is a simplicity here, just—

"You may suck me," Morgause says. "You can try and get me hard—if you can." 

Leon does hesitate. His mind goes blissfully blank as soon as he opens his mouth, letting out the moan that has been trapped there. He allows himself to finally look down, taking in the soft cock inside her harness. It's a soft, peach coloured, resting against the paleness of her thigh.

"Go on then, Leon," she says, voice quiet and calm in command. "See if your whore mouth can get me hard enough to fuck you." 

"Oh please," he barely gets out before he's curling down to hunch over her lap so that he can slide his mouth, wet and open and needy, over the head of her fleshy cock. 

"There you go." 

He sinks down, able to get the entirety of her inside his mouth because she's _so soft_ against his tongue. He can almost imagine the way her cock would swell in his mouth—if he was ever good enough—

"Stop thinking and suck my dick, faggot," she says, soft and kind and—

Leon suckles, tongue working the underside and he inhales hard, struggling to breathe with her cock filling his mouth. He can smell her though and he imagines that she's wet underneath his chin, that it's not just his sloppy spit. 

He moans around her. 

"Oh Leon," Morgause says, pushing him down until he's choking, tears prickling at the corners of his mouth and running down his cheeks. "You'll never be good enough to get me hard. Nono, my darling fag, but don't worry." 

She pulls back and then thrusts back in, his teeth cracking against the d-ring of her harness. 

"I'll fix you—make you worthy for my cock, fuck you open and make you cry," she says with a sweetness that Leon feels in his straining cock. "You're so good, so greedily obedient for me. I can reward your loyalty. I'll make you enough." 

He looks up, promises on her lips and gets back to sucking, his own dick leaking between his legs.

* * *

**22.**

Warnings: Dub-con, mind control

She has no use for a name. A name is only a word that someone else calls you: she has no word that she is known by, no one to call her by any name. She only has a hunger, more a part of her than anything else that she has ever known. When the girl asks her name, she only knows what the priestesses called her kind. She only knows what she _is_.

“Lamia,” she says. “My name is Lamia.”

She’s killed hundreds of men. Her appetite is never sated; it only waxes and wanes. The villagers she killed were thin and tasteless, the bandits and traders even more so. The ones who save her, though, they’re different from the others. They are full of strength and energy, irresistible to her. 

One of them has magic. His touch burns like fire, enough to make her scream. She only takes one look into his eyes to know that he would kill her if he could. She should flee, but her hunger for the others – the knights – is stronger than her fear. She bides her time instead, knowing that she’ll have him and the girl in the end. 

That night, she sits underneath a tree, shrouded in darkness. She is hungry, and it is easy for her to cry. Percival, the strong one, comes to her. She has learned their names, something she has never bothered to do before. It seems a fair trade: giving hers and learning theirs. 

“Don’t worry. No harm can come to you now,” Percival says.

That is true enough. As she closes the embrace, she touches her lips to his. It’s different this time: he tastes of passion. It awakens a hunger in her of a different kind. He gazes at her with something in his eyes, something she doesn’t have a name for, something her charms cannot touch. She kisses him again, and his mouth opens to hers, responding with a simple, eager joy. She touches his face, and he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t cower away from her, even without her enchantments. Her hands are wild, feeling his strong body against hers. She wants to keep it there.

She pushes him down with an arm, and his eyes widen at her strength. No doubt he thinks her just a girl, as they all do, but she is not just a girl. She is a Lamia. And tonight she wants more than this man’s life to sate her appetite. 

She undoes his belt. He watches her with his mouth parted, his eyes reverent. She uses her hand to coax him to hardness, feeling his cock jump and leap eagerly into her palm. She knows the art of teasing, using the feather-light touches from her fingertips edged with the barest of scratches from her fingernails to leave him groaning. When he is hard and ready for her, she lifts up her skirt and slides down onto him with ease. 

Her breath catches as he fills her, hot and thick. She flexes her hips, matching the rhythm to his breathing, moving to the rise and fall of his chest. He places his large hands on her hips, anchoring her to him as if he never wants to be apart from her. She moans, and for once it’s not for show. She feels the change in her eyes as she takes him in deep, deep, deeper. She hisses, her skin rippling, a few scales breaking through, but she won’t change, not yet. He touches her in her halfway state with no fear in his eyes, and she wonders what, if anything, he does fear. 

She comes, crying out, not from pain, not from deceit, but from pleasure, a rush that sets all of her body aglow. 

“Lamia,” Percival says, and she feel him come, pulsing deep inside her. For once, she wishes that she had a true name, one she could hear him say aloud and mean _her_.

* * *

**23.**

Warnings: prostitution

 

George was unquestionably the best manservant in all of Camelot. He didn't have to be arrogant to believe that; the only other candidates were Morris (a masochistic little thing, constantly idling in hopes of punishment) and Merlin (a _brat_ , defiant, who delighted in his own sorry ineptitude).

In contrast, George was the pinnacle of manservanthood. He took pride in service, and did not strive for praise, but rather, perfection. For years he had faithfully served the King, until the lamentable onset of his illness—then the Prince had discarded him like so much dishwater, leaving the delicate health of the King in the hands of Merlin (ugh) and Guinevere (passable, but ultimately inferior to George).

And this explained his current predicament: unemployed, crouching in a back alley with Morris in the lower town.

"You say you've found new work?" George asked, sullen. "What's it then?"

"You'll see," Morris said. "Come on. Not that you'd be any good, but maybe you could clean the rooms or something."

George followed Morris through the back door of the mysterious establishment, wondering how a life of _cleaning the rooms or something_ could ever compare to his previous position. But upon entering the main space he stopped wondering anything—except, perhaps, whether men really could bend quite... so... far...

"I've got an appointment now actually," Morris said, apparently oblivious to the appalling display surrounding them. "There's nothing like a bare-arsed spanking before a good fuck, and you can't really get either of those employed in the castle. I bet one or the other would loosen you up. Though if you'd rather not, Sally's at the front. She's been looking for some help."

George wondered what kind of help Morris meant exactly—images of himself on his knees under a strange woman's skirt floated distressingly behind his eyelids—but found with relief that Sarah really was just looking for a second pair of hands to help keep the brothel clean.

( _Brothel_ , George thought. _A brothel!_ )

Unlike his work at the castle, there was not to be any dressing or undressing of other persons—Morris and his coworkers were in charge of that sort of thing. There were a lot more mysterious fluids to be scrubbed off of floors and walls and out of sheets. And of course, there was a lot more sex.

George had never much been interested in... intercourse. It all seemed a bit messy and unnecessary to him, inefficient. Why, George could sweep three floors to spotlessness in the time it took for the average man to jerk off. But Morris... well, Morris seemed to be in his element here.

"Slut," a tall man affectionately told Morris, bent over his lap in the lounge (such as it was). Three of his fingers were currently somewhere that George felt fingers should not generally go. 

The man did something with his hand that made Morris sigh and twist, eyes fluttering open—and landing on George, sweeping nearby. (Sweeping the same patch of floor in the corner for far too long, actually. And possibly watching. Erm.)

"Another finger, sir?" Morris asked, his gaze not lifting from George. "Please."

George hastily retreated.

It was not that night, but the next night that Morris cornered him. In the wee hours when Morris and the others were just bedding down, George was turning under his sheets, just about to rise.

"You," Morris said, straddling George's hips, trousers undone, "have some serious pent-up... _something_."

George opened his eyes. "I'm fine," he said, but for some reason couldn't stop staring at the brown mess of hair peeking out of Morris's open laces, or at the soft pink cock there, just starting to rise again.

"You want something," Morris said, reaching in and pulling out his—his erection.

"Oh, I—" George said, pulling the blanket up his chest, but he was fascinated and couldn't quite look away. "No—I don't think I really do."

"Alright," Morris said amicably, but continued stroking himself. "Don't move."

It was an order. A sound tumbled out of George's mouth quite independent of his own volition. He didn't move—was in fact perfectly still, on his back, watching as Morris touched himself faster, and faster, and—then—

Hot droplets everywhere, on the blanket and the floor and a little way up George's neck.

"Good," Morris said.

George's breath hitched. He could hear the next words on the tip of Morris's tongue and wanted them desperately, wanted them more than anything.

"Now," Morris murmured, "clean it up."


	2. Group B (with warnings)

**24.**

"I would steal the stars right out of the night sky for you."

Isolde laughs softly at Tristan's whispered declaration, untangling from their embrace as she sits up beside him. The dying embers from the campfire outside the caravan’s tent light her up from behind as she straddles him, but even as shadows dance across her unabashedly naked form, he knows she's beautiful.

She slowly grinds against his groin; she’s still wet and warm within from their earlier coupling, and his body soon begins to reawaken under her ministrations. It's like he's a hibernating animal, stumbling blindly out of a cave after the long, hard months of winter, and she is his own personal essence of spring.

"I see someone is feeling sentimental tonight," she says, her tone dripping as sweet as golden honey the color of her hair. "What need would I have for stars?"

He reaches up, ensnaring a strand of hair that has escaped her braid between two of his callused fingers. "I would use them to adorn you, to dress you in finery greater than any queen's. But then everyone would know what I already do."

A sigh escapes her lips as she finally slides down on his hardened length, taking him completely in her heart, her soul. "Hm?" she murmurs, winking at him saucily as she begins to move and gyrate, never one to let him set the pace in any of their adventures. "And what's that?"

He grips her sides firmly, as if his hands were made to slot into that delicate dip above her hip bone. He starts to thrust upwards, not willing to let her do all the work, even if they both know she's more then capable. It's why they're such a perfect pair. "That they would look like dull lumps of glass next to you, because you would outshine any star."

“Best to leave them in the sky then, for all travelers and lovers alike to enjoy,” she says, laughing again. This time, the sound is low and breathy, transforming into a pleasured moan as the speed of their rutting increases. Her head hangs forward as she braces her hands against his chest, her ample breasts bouncing in time with the eager canting of her hips. He drags one of his own hands up her chest and cups a pebbled nipple in the cusp of his roughened palm, and she keens at the jolt of electricity that ripples through them both.

“Besides,” she gasps out, still giving him that self-assured grin as he works at undoing her defenses before he will build them back up again, “I think it’s more of the challenge you’re really after.”

With one fluid movement, he flips her onto the sweat-drenched furs that make up their travel bedding, pushing into her warmth forcefully one more time before white hot light bursts in front of his vision and he fills her with his seed. She clings to him throughout her own climax, fingernails scrambling down the slippery expanse of his back, marking him with evidence of her pleasure as she cries out his name.

Afterwards, as they remain intertwined, shuddering and reluctant to part, he places a quick kiss to her temple. “Why would I need a challenge when I have you?”

“That’s right, you do,” she whispers, placing a hand against his cheek as the constellations in her eyes wash over him with their heavenly glow. “Partners for life, remember?”

* * *

**25.**

The world usually seems to come at her in waves that trip her up, but her sword is a steadying weight in her hand, the missing element to her balance, and she wipes the smirk from her opponent’s face.

 _Thunk thunk thunk_ goes her heart, dizzy, but Elena breathes in deep and stands up straight, as she was taught to, and can’t control the exhilarated grin that stretches her face.

She’s won the first round for her lady; only five more to go.

*

‘You’re a silly girl,’ Queen Vivian is fond of saying. There’s only two things Elena’s ever been good at: wielding a sword and riding a horse; she does both with abandon, and ignores those who snicker behind her back. 

*

The first time she met the queen, two weeks after the old king’s death, Elena bent her head, overwhelmed, embarrassed. The second, third and fourth time, she only barely clung onto her position, wrapping angry protests in stutters, overbalancing on a bow, and on one memorable occasion, slapping the queen’s back. Apparently, this was not considered a friendly move.

She spent months waiting for the queen to make good on her threats to strip her of her knighthood. The moment never came.

*

Sometimes, she wonders if she’s the only one who sees the cracks; blunders into them. She wondered it while the wine the queen threw at her soaked steadily into the queen’s own robes, Elena’s arms wrapped around her while she sobbed out her grief for the man who bequeathed her the thankless task of ruling the country; she wondered it when the queen snapped at her to help with her dress, and Elena somehow ended up with her head between soft thighs, the queen recovering from her surprise admirably with a ‘Well, what are you waiting for? Don’t you understand anything, you – oh.’

She’s long since learned that Vivian’s words like to twist and coil around their meaning, that you have to find the spaces in between and curl into them to understand.

Sometimes, she wonders if she’s the only one who knows that. 

Sometimes, she doesn’t mind.

*

Vivian is irritable, proud, clever and so lively it’s impossible to be bored even for a second in her presence. 

She’s also very demanding. ‘No, _no_ , not like that, what are you doing – ’ she’ll snap at Elena, impatient, and to nobody’s surprise, there’s not an awful lot Elena manages to get right. 

Elena would feel more horrible about this if it didn’t end with her moaning desperately into the sheets, inhaling Vivian’s smell, while Vivian shows her how it’s done. If Elena has the unfortunate habit of falling off the bed at least twice every time they use it, well. It just makes Vivian more determined to pin her in place, and Elena loves to feel the weight of Vivian on top of her.

She tries hard to be gentle with Vivian; lets Vivian not be gentle with her.

One of the councillors will say, ‘With all due respect, your highness’ – except not really, the curl of his lip says, ‘your father would have – ’ and Vivian’s lips will say, ‘If you think I’m flattered by your mistaking me for my father, you are sorely mistaken indeed,’ and Elena will laugh. 

And after, Vivian will push her down on the council table, where anyone can walk in on them, hold her in place by her hair, suck on her nipples through the tunic until she’s moaning loud enough for everyone to hear, rutting against her until Elena’s twisting up, the wet fabric rubbing over the sensitive peaks of her breasts with every shift, and – 

‘Really, aren’t you knights supposed to be all about _control_ ’, except Vivian will be panting, too, her lovely face lively with a hectic flush, and Elena memorises the look, every time, just in case she never gets to see it again.

Sometimes, Vivian will tie her up with her scarves and bite Elena with her sharp little teeth, the marks lasting for days.

Sometimes, lately, she’ll let Elena sleep in her bed, too.

*

‘You silly girl,’ Vivian says after the fourth round of the tournament, her fingers trembling a little as she tends the cut on Elena’s arm.

Elena smiles, flush with another victory. ‘It’s just a scratch.’

The twist of Vivian’s mouth says otherwise, but she just scowls, and says, ‘Don’t let me down.’

Elena gets back onto the field, smiles as she touches the brightly coloured scrap of cloth Vivian tied around her arm, and doesn’t.

* * *

**26.**

**Mary had a little lamb**

There was a noise in the taproom. She was sure she had locked the door... could it be Dagr and his goons?

Mary armed herself with her heaviest skillet and peeped out cautiously. That brown jacket, that dashing red scarf, that adorable head of dark curls... "The prince's manservant!" she cried gladly, dropping her skillet and rushing forward to seize the darling lad in a great hug and spin him about. "What brings you back to my humble tavern?"

"I- wha-?" the man sputtered and choked, and she realised that she had the wrong man.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, sir, I took you for someone else." She dropped him back on his feet and thumped his back while he coughed and stared at her, pink-cheeked. "Oooh, but you're quite the handsome one too."

"Thank you," the man said, tugged quickly at his scarf, then straightened his jacket with a brisk snap, puffing up his chest. " Call me George, good mistress. I am travelling to Camelot to take up an offer of employment in the royal household," he cleared his throat modestly, "quite possibly as the new-crowned king's manservant, even."

"How fine for you!" Mary cooed, admiring his fine posture and the healthy pink flush growing in his lovely cheeks. "I'm Mary, what brings you to my fine establishment, then?" She held out a hand for him to shake and he bowed over her fingertips like she was some sort of fine lady. She giggled and smacked the top of his head playfully, which sent him reeling back a little. "Oh, George! I'm no noble missus, no need for such silly court manners!"

"But you are a very lovely lady, Mary," George protested, shuffling his feet. "I only thought to stop for a drink and something to eat, and was sorry to see your tavern was closed, but it was worth it, to have met you here, " he said earnestly, twisting his fingers together.

The lamb should be about ready now, Mary thought, and sniffed the fine smells coming from her kitchen. Yes! She grabbed his fretful hands and pulled him right up against her, chest to bosom. "Destiny brought us together, darling George. Who are we to defy Fate when she gives me lamb and apple pie, and you, on the day of my birth?"

"Oh, Mary," George squeaked, breathless, and clasped her rounded waist. "Truly, this is a wondrous day, if it brought me to you. But is this proper?"

"You darling little man, forget proper; Destiny calls our names." She locked the door of her tavern and pulled him into the kitchen so she could take the roasting lamb from the fire, then lifted him up and laid him on the long table, his knees hanging over the edge. "Oh, I could eat you all up," she declared happily, taking in the view. She put her hand on his belly and rubbed him gently, and he purred like a blissful cat, clinging to her hand as his eyes rolled up in his head. 

Inspired, he sat up and undid his shirt so she could reach skin, and when she cut a slice of lamb and fed it to him, he caught and pulled her forward so they could share the tender bite in a hungry kiss, nipping fiercely at each other and tangling their tongues together in savoury contest until they tumbled off onto the ground. They shared the rest of the lamb that way, laughing when bits fell onto his belly or her bosom; she greedily bit the meat off him and lapped up the juices as he whimpered, and more daring, he returned the favour, pulling her dress down to reach a naughty morsel that had fallen between her fulsome breasts.

Giddy with delight, Mary opened his breeches and smashed the pie on his slim belly, and fed him fingerfuls while she cleaned up the mess with her mouth as he protested, and finally, climbed up over him, pulled up her dress and sat down on his erect cock, riding him until they both reached completion.

"Be sure to come back often, George," Mary called after him, dabbing her eyes. 

"I will, dear Mary," George promised faithfully, a catch in his throat as he turned to continue to the castle to take up the post as he had promised.

And he did. Come back often, that is. The manservant's position didn't quite work out as he had hoped, but this was better.

* * *

**27.**

**Every Inch Of You**

Elyan finds Percival sitting on the floor with his back against the bathtub. He's still naked, curled up into himself, head on his knees and hands in his hair. Elyan wonders how it's possible for such a huge man to make himself so small. He enters quietly and locks the door behind him, then sits down beside his friend, shoulders touching. He can hear the noise filtering from the kitchen below, Arthur's voice booming over the steady beat of the music, chairs scraping and the sound of laughter. 

"Are you going to tell me what the hell that was about?" Elyan asks. "I get that Arthur and Gwaine were being twats, tickling you and holding you down, and Val shouldn't have stripped your boxers off like that when you didn't want him to. But they were just messing around because you wouldn't take them off yourself... and that _was_ the forfeit."

"You wouldn't understand," Percival replies, his face still hidden. 

"So, explain it to me."

Percival lifts his head, face stricken. "Wasn't it obvious? Didn't you all have a good laugh about it?"

"To be honest, mate, the rest of them were too busy checking you hadn't broken Val's nose, and I was more worried about you. So what’s going on?"

There’s a long silence.

Percival's head drops again, and his voice is a painful rasp as he forces the words out. "My dick is really small and I hate it."

"Show me." The words are out of Elyan’s mouth before he has time to think about what he's saying. 

Percival uncurls his body slowly, avoiding Elyan’s eyes as he stretches his legs out, revealing himself. And yes, it is smaller than average, lying curled softly in the light brown hair at Percival's groin; but it mostly looks small because the rest of Percival is so ridiculously huge. 

"A girl laughed at it once," Percival whispers, cheeks flaming. "Said she was expecting me to be big all over."

Elyan feels fury rip through him, anger at that bitch of a girl for making Percival think he wasn't good enough. "It's beautiful," he says, honestly. He catches Percival's start of surprise. "What?" Elyan shrugs. "I like cock, and yours is a lovely specimen. It looks smaller than it is because you're built like a brick shithouse, so if yours _was_ in proportion you'd split people in half with it." 

Percival chuckles then, and the smile on his face makes Elyan feel brave. He reaches out, catching Percival's eye before he touches, giving him a chance to say no. Percival gasps as Elyan runs a fingertip gently from base to tip, feeling the softness of the skin. 

"Want me to suck you off?” Elyan asks, “because I'd like that. I wanna show you how much I like your cock." 

"Okay," Percival nods, blushing bright pink. 

"Stand up." The bathroom is way too cramped to manage this any other way. 

Percival stumbles unsteadily to his feet. His dick is beginning to perk up, and Elyan draws it easily into his mouth, feeling it thickening quickly as he sucks on it. It doesn’t get a lot longer, but it gets deliciously hard, and is more than enough to fill Elyan’s mouth and make him drool. Elyan’s hands come up to grip the meat of Percival’s thighs as he sucks harder, tasting pre-come as Percival’s breathing hitches.

Elyan pulls off to look, stroking Percival with his hand as he admires him. “You’re gorgeous... your cock is gorgeous,” he murmurs, nuzzling at Percival’s balls now, talking between licks. “You look like a fucking Greek god, Perce... seriously... so fucking perfect... every inch of you.” 

Percival moans and his hands flutter up to touch Elyan’s face, thumbs sweeping over his cheekbones, touching the corner of his lips as though checking that he’s real. 

“So hard for me,” Elyan licks the underside, tracing the veins with his tongue. “You could fuck me so well...” He reaches the head and Percival gasps.

“Oh, Christ... I'm gonna...”

“Yeah.” Elyan pumps Percival’s cock hard, catching the hot spurts on his tongue as Percival shudders and cries out. His legs give out and he collapses, kneeling down, hands still holding Elyan’s face. 

He wipes a stray splash of come from Elyan’s lips with a large finger and offers it to him with a shy grin. “You missed a bit.” 

“I’ll catch it all next time,” Elyan promises, kissing Percival's fingertip clean.

* * *

**28.**

Warning: incest

Elyan couldn't help his fingers on her thigh, couldn't help her smile as he caught Gwen's lips with his own over dinner.

"The last one," she'd said, clinking glasses like she'd seen at court, and Elyan had nodded, unable to not see her as the woman with the curves and the sex, hard to see her as the girl he'd known years ago, the sister he'd known before he'd left.

She was coy now, brushing her hair past her ear, playing with the fabric over her breast, looking at him longer when she caught him staring, then letting his fingers slip down her dress. They'd been children back in the days, they could hardly pretend to be children now.

He'd never see her like that again. The thought kept running through Elyan's mind, incessantly, that naked like this, with her breasts high on her chest and her hair just above her sex, he'd never quite see her like this again. He kissed down Gwen's shoulder to her breast, to her nipples, the candle light flickering and reflecting off her skin, and knelt in front of her, hands on her thighs.

She spread for him, easy and familiar, and he leaned in until he had his mouth pressed to her lips and slickness, until he slurped like he'd not had a woman in years (and he hadn't), like he'd had no other place to be but here (and he didn't). He had nothing on Arthur's status, nothing on his hair and body, but as Gwen buried her hand in his hair and pulled him in tight until his nose was pressed to her skin and her scent and her wetness was everything he could taste and smell, he felt a little like he meant something.

She'd have her own bed with Arthur. Her own maid.

Elyan licked along her slit and pushed his tongue inside, made her spread her legs for him like she wouldn't for anyone else, not even Arthur. She leaned against the table in the kitchen, their dinner still on the plates half eaten and her skirt pulled up to her legs until she dropped it over his head, bathing him in darkness and in her scent. He flicked his tongue over her clit and thrust his fingers into her, fucking her better than anyone else, knowing better than anyone else what she liked, what she did to herself at night when she let him watch, what she wished her lovers would do when they were too busy chaisng their own pleasure. He sucked her clit between his lips and didn't let go until he straightened and came up for air from under her skirt and pushed her up on the table and the plates aside.

"He'll never have you like this," Elyan said, leaning in close to her lips as he pushed his cock into her, pushing into her wet, tight heat, near-virginal because brothers were trusted with virtue and he'd always kept it safe and to himself. "Never like this." Because he knew her like no one else, where she'd skinned her knee and where she'd sent him crying.

Arthur might be her king, and her husband come morning, but he wasn't inside her now, didn't see her eyes as he pushed in deeper, and a little deeper, until he was all the way inside her, stretching her and having her take him.

"The last one," she said, like she'd only have Arthur in his chambers, like she'd not walk down here, and hike up her dress, and bent over neat as he pulled off his chainmail and pushed into her. As if she could do without his whispers in the dead of the night, telling her stories like he'd had when they'd been children.

"The last one," she said, on a moan, fingers pale on his arm and the table as she held down, breasts catching on the rough wood with every thrust deep into her, every spurt of come. Because she'd be Arthur's tomorrow. Come deep inside her, Elyan's come, she'd become Arthur's wife and queen, and he'd look on, knowing his cock stayed dry while Arthur's took its rightful place.

"Mine tonight," Elyan whispered into her ear as he ground into her. There'd be time enough to think about tomorrow. Time enough.

* * *

**29.**

Uther is always watching. He is watching when he decrees that Merlin be awarded the high honour of serving his prince. He is watching when Arthur glances too many times across the table. And he is certainly watching when Merlin trips and Arthur’s hand is there at the small of his back to steady him.

He sees everything. The sneaking suspicions that crowd his waking mind are his undoing. Sometimes, he thinks Merlin must have magic to have ensnared his son in such a manner. Why else would Arthur be so enamored, so oblivious, so distracted? There was a time that nothing could have deterred Arthur from his path to king, but that time has come and gone. Arthur is growing into a man, and Uther will be damned if he sits idly by to watch the Pendragon name come to ruin over a servant boy.

Arthur could have Merlin on the side if he wished, but Merlin can’t ever be anything more than that.

When he confronts Arthur with this ultimatum, Arthur balks, makes excuses for his behaviour. _He’s just a servant_ and _Merlin is my friend, Father_ and every manner of deceit. Arthur’s tongue is silver as he spouts it all, and yet, Uther knows better. He only has to raise his hand once before Arthur is on his knees, pledging his allegiance to Camelot and its king. To his father.

“You will put some distance between yourself and Merlin,” Uther demands. There is no room for argument.

“Yes, Father.”

As Arthur leaves, Uther watches and is pleased.

**

Once upon a time, Uther was the head of a grand kingdom. Slowly, magic eradicated his iron grip, reducing his authority to an undignified end. For one blissful moment before death, he thinks that he knows how to fix everything. The meaning of his life comes to him in a wave of exhilaration. Enlightenment throbs through his veins.

Uther is more than happy to leave this earthly kingdom, to go on to the other worlds beyond in blissful unconsciousness, knowing that everything is as it should be.

But when Uther opens his eyes, all is not right.

**

The peace Uther thought he would receive through death is unattainable. Uther trembles beside his bed, looking down at his own cold corpse as his son gingerly presses his eyelids closed, shutting out the deadened, hollow look from his lifeless eyes. Uther screams but never utters a sound. He pounds his fists and finds they slide through the walls. He tries jumping out of the window and finds himself hovering in the sky, weightless and buoyant for the winds that glide around his form.

Trapped in this horrible distance from the rest of the world, he attends his own funeral, watches his body sink into the earth, and sees and hears things he shouldn’t. The maids talk about how glad they are. From far, far away, he hears Morgana’s laughter echoing through him in waves, her sick satisfaction calloused and unremorseful. And before him, Arthur tells Merlin they needn’t worry any longer, that when he is crowned King of Camelot, he will make the rules and things will be different.

Uther is helpless to the watching now. Helpless as Merlin sinks to his knees with a treacherous _my king, my beautiful king_ on his lips. Helpless as Merlin takes Arthur’s prick between his lips and swallows him, as Arthur grips his skull and whispers _yes, missed that, missed you_ in a chorus that would break his heart if he still had one. Helpless to the way Arthur ruts against Merlin like a common mutt and slides deep into his body, full to the hilt like he should have done to a wife, not a servant, not a man, not Merlin.

And when Merlin gently caresses his son’s body after, licks Arthur’s nipples one at a time to hardness, and plays with Arthur’s hole in turn, Uther is helpless to do anything but watch. He sees it all, the way Merlin slides his tongue into Arthur, the way Arthur is perverted by Merlin’s touch, and afterwards, the horrific confessions of _magic_ , the forgiveness in Arthur’s tone, the humble affection buried between blankets and midnight lovemaking.

It never seems to end. For Uther, the torment never will.

* * *

**30.**

"Merlin?"

Mordred looks up. "He's not here," he tells Arthur.

Arthur's head falls back against the pillow, weak and pathetic. "What happened? Where am I?"

"You're safe."

"That's not what I asked." Mordred grits his teeth; even like this, Arthur Pendragon is a pain in the arse. "Who are you?"

Mordred focuses on his work, watching the magic sizzle and spark between his fingers. "I'm the man who saved your life," he answers, contemptuous.

"Why?" Arthur asks, sitting up again and staring at Mordred's back. 

When Mordred doesn't answer him, Arthur stands up shakily. "Sit down, Pendragon," Mordred snaps without turning. "Do you want to injure yourself again?"

"I feel fine," Arthur insists, palm grounded against a wall as he examines himself. "I'm not in pain. I'm not even hurt. I just feel... dizzy."

"That's to be expected," Mordred mutters, and a small explosion goes off like fireworks in his hands.

"What are you doing?" Arthur stares over Mordred's shoulder. "Is that magic?" His voice goes from angry and offended, to thoughtful and quiet. "Merlin uses magic. He was born that way."

"Yes, he was. We're all born that way, those of us who have no choice." Mordred blows a strand of black out of his eyes.

"Where is he?" Arthur asks again, more awake now, more insistent. "The last thing I remember is the War... Merlin jumping in front of me. Morgana using magic. I'm flying back, and then... I think I hit something." He touches his head, but there's nothing there.

"I healed you."

"Thanks... I guess." Arthur sinks into the bed again, too weak to stand. "You didn't do a very good job of it, whoever you are."

"You're welcome," Mordred bites back sarcastically, and spends the rest of the day answering Arthur's mundane questions.

*

"Merlin?"

"He's not here."

"What happened? Where am I?"

"You're safe."

"That's not what I--"

"Yeah yeah, whatever, Pendragon." Mordred rolls his eyes. "Look, you were hurt – I healed you, you're safe. No, I don't know where Merlin is; no, you can't leave, you're sick; and no, I will not kill you in your sleep."

"Is that--"

"Magic, yes. Now shut up so I can concentrate."

Arthur eventually sits beside Mordred, watching him work.

"Have we met before?" he asks when Mordred blows out the serpent-green flames.

Mordred meets his eyes. "No."

*

"Merlin?"

"He's not here."

Mordred lets Arthur spout the usual spiel, answers each question on automatic. He barely even registers Arthur sitting down next to him anymore.

"I spent so many years hating magic," Arthur says, staring at Mordred as he levitates objects in the air, making them dance. "Yet, Merlin still spent a decade by my side, protecting me. Giving his life for me."

Mordred stills, but the objects continue to swoop through the room like trapped birds.

"He taught me that it's the individual who is evil, not magic," Arthur murmurs, and pushes his head between his hands.

*

Arthur lurches forward, fisting a hand in Mordred's shoulder, desperate. "You said Merlin isn't here, but where is he then? Why hasn’t he come for me?"

Mordred growls. "That is _enough_!" He shoves a palm against Arthur's forehead, mutters a spell, and Arthur falls unconscious into him.

Mordred closes his eyes, breathes in deep. Then, he manhandles Arthur into bed.

*

"I wish I'd never saved you," Mordred says as Arthur is pacing, asking why there are no windows, why there are no exits, why they are in a cave.

“I should’ve just let you die,” Mordred continues viciously, not looking at Arthur, just glaring at his handwriting, all of his research. “God knows it would make my life easier. You’re unbearable, you know that? Every fucking day is the same, _every_ day. Why can’t I just let you _die_!”

Arthur’s jaw is tight. “Why don’t you?”

Mordred remembers the light in Merlin’s eyes as they went out. “Because I promised him.”

*

“You’ll never leave, because you’re never going to stop being sick. You’re never going to remember. You’re not even going to remember this tomorrow,” Mordred tells Arthur tiredly, and when Arthur tries to fight him, Mordred puts him to sleep again.

*

“Merlin?”

Mordred turns to him with a scream in his throat.

“He’s dead, you idiot, he’s _dead_ , so stop asking me where he is, I killed him, he’s _dead_!”

*

“Merlin?”

Mordred climbs into Arthur’s lap, gazing down at those hazy, trusting eyes.

“Ssh,” he whispers, pulling down Arthur’s trousers. “I’m here, Arthur. I’m here.”

* * *

**31.**

**Warnings:** Noncon/Dubcon? (You decide), Sexual Violence

 

“I shall never forgive this, Emrys. And I shall _never_ forget.”

Years passed since that day. The hate, the _hurt_ didn’t fade. The feeling he’d had staring into deep blue eyes while mind-speaking that promise never stopped pulsing through him. It burgeoned while his powers grew and he honed his control with unswerving diligence. Mordred had _loved_ Emrys, his betrayal cut deeply. He was legendary, the Druids’ messiah and though little more than a boy himself, he was to be magic’s _savior_ , not its destroyer.

After meeting him twice, he’d dreamed of the warlock every night. He’d felt a deep bond, knew they _must_ share a destiny. They were meant to be. He’d _known_ it.

Everything crumbled at their third meeting. Arthur, once his rescuer, was there to murder them all and Emrys was _with him_. Emrys tried to kill him! Dreams shattered and twisted. Emrys stayed in his head, visited his sleep and made him yearn but the pain never left; desire and vengeance merged.

Now, feeling no mercy, he gazed upon the naked warlock at his feet. Emrys didn’t _appear older_. His body had filled out. Adolescent boniness had given way to wiry muscle sheathing long limbs and rounding shoulders once too broad for his narrow frame. Remaining lean, he appeared well-muscled, lithe, _enticing_. Mordred’s cock twitched. Emrys’s face though, hadn’t _aged_. The bones were less pronounced but he almost looked younger, sweeter.

Heart-stopping eyes opened, looking at him without recognition. Mordred straddled Emrys’s waist running possessive hands down his chest, digging nails into alabaster skin, gouging bloody lines. Emrys arched beneath him hissing; Mordred hardened fully, letting Emrys feel it.

“ _Who_ are you?”

 _”I told you_ I’d _never forget, Emrys. You shouldn’t have.”_

“Mordred?”

He smirked affirmatively.

“What do you want?”

He ground his erection against Emrys’s abdomen.

_”Should think that’s obvious, even to you.”_

Eyes that never left Mordred’s dreams hazed confusion, but Emrys’s hardening length rose against Mordred’s arse. So…Emrys was aroused. He laughed, humiliation would sweeten this.

He slid down, slipping between splayed thighs. He knew when Emrys discovered the binding-spell, magic and body tightly under Mordred’s control. His thrice-damned, beautiful eyes told Mordred. He’d never learned to lie with his eyes. Mordred held his gaze while reaching down and seizing Emrys’s cullions in a clawed grip. He squeezed hard, pulling and twisting. Shimmering eyes widened and a satisfying scream tore from the long throat. Bright blues snapped shut, tears streaming down his face. Mordred toyed with him, continuing to wring whimpers and screeches from Emrys that had his own balls drawing up. It was delicious. Knowing he’d have time to play later, he released his grip; right now he had a different goal. Palming Emrys’s thighs and meeting no resistance, he spread them wide and high against a lean-muscled chest.

Craving more screams, he lined up with the tightly-furled, pink pucker he’d exposed and shoved deep inside with one sharp thrust. Emrys’s wail almost made him spill the moment he was balls-deep so he paused, adjusting to the tightest channel he’d ever breeched. Emrys began to twist and buck, biting his lip till blood ran. His agony was ambrosia. Mordred drew back, saw blood on his cock and snapped his hips forward cruelly. Finding a harsh, staccato rhythm inside the sorcerer’s beautiful body, he reveled in Emrys’s arching, twisting motions and his fists pounding the floor. Emrys’s keening sounded high and distressed but Mordred realized he was arching _into_ each thrust, twisting as Mordred bottomed out and whimpering as he withdrew. Emrys’s erection didn't flag, but his tears never stopped.

The flesh gripping him didn’t relax, didn’t yield…seemed almost to be milking him as he pounded Emrys with all his strength. Unexpectedly, Emrys contracted around him and the scalding-hot cum that suddenly erupted and splattered his entire torso was shocking. Overwhelmed, he followed helplessly seconds later. 

When Emrys wrapped his long legs around Mordred’s waist and drew him deeper inside, even as his cock shrank, he wondered who actually had control. The older man moaned and it didn’t sound despairing. Mordred jerked upright and surveyed the body wrapped around his. Blood was smeared and running down Emrys’s thighs, trailing over his chest and belly and dripping from his swollen lips, lips that were curving upwards. Lush lashes lifted and Emrys smirked at _him_ , blue eyes aglow with twisted ecstasy.

“You’ll have to be more inventive if you want revenge. It should’ve been obvious to you that I’m a masochist. After all, I’ve stayed with Arthur all these years.”

* * *

**32.**

**Warnings:** Omegaverse, Dub-con, stalkerish behaviour, and really, REALLY un-safe sex.

**_Because the night..._ **

 

Elyan was wiping down the bar when he first caught the scent. It snuck through the haze of tobacco and bad cologne to lay thick, rich, and salty on his tongue. Saliva filled his mouth in a sudden rush of hunger as the crowd parted and the drummer from last weekend’s band, dressed in worn jeans and a t-shirt, strode up to the counter to order a beer. He’d been politely stalking Elyan every night since “Pulse” was hired and it was slowly driving him mad.

Someone might-- _try to take what’s **his**_ \-- disrespect his co-worker and cause a scene.

He grunted, disgusted at himself.

“Anything wrong?” Percival’s tone was genuinely concerned.

Elyan just barely resisted snapping at him. “Nothing.” He gritted out, “Long night is all.” A hum of understanding before Percival asked for another beer and continued to watch him

Closing time. The drunks stumbled out with a minimum of fuss, the owner left with the deposit for the morning, and Elyan was left to clean and lock up for the night. There was no real sound system besides what the bands or DJ’s brought so he used the clunky old antenna radio from the office that only had three stations: static, classic rock, and Jesus.

Springsteen blared defiantly from the speakers when the sound of a shoe scuffing the floor had Elyan twisting in surprise, twisting Percival’s wrist and pinning him to a nearby table. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!” He demanded. “We’re closed.”

“Sorry, just forgot something.” Was all Percival said.

Elyan sighed and released his hold so the other man could stand back up, take care of his business, and get his sweet smelling ass out of his bar. Except Percival didn’t go, hadn’t even left anything, just pulled Elyan close by the hair and almost lazily licked his way into his mouth. Took his time biting and suckling his way inside and smoothed large hands down the rough cotton of his uniform to stroke and squeeze proprietarily at his ass.

Elyan pulled away abruptly with a gasp. Blood rushed in his ears,his clothes felt uncomfortable against the heat of his skin, and his cock was tight against his zipper. His eyes dilated and the smell of the other man was heavy in his nose and on his tongue.

“What the fuck do you think you’re _doing_?”

Percival growled in answer, sounded both pleased and annoyed. “Is it that hard to figure out?”

Then Elyan was being kissed, herded back to the freshly cleaned stage, pressed down, and straddled. The rasp of a zipper was barely audible but he heard it and inhaled sharply as the scent of Percival’s arousal hit him in a wave of needy demand and that was the end of his hard won control. “Take them off.” He demanded and was obeyed.

The drummer’s thighs were slick with more than sweat and Elyan wasted no time, worked the sloppy mess open with his fingers. “So _wet_ already. I’ve seen you watching me, watching my hands. Do you like it? What I’m doing with them now?” He demanded, eyes hooded in interest. Percival groaned and ripped open Elyan’s black work slacks to pull out his cock in answer. Stroked its impressive length and teasingly worked the bulge at its base until it was finally worked it into the tight ring of his body.

Elyan flexed, thrust, and tried not to lose his mind at the feel of it. Balls uncomfortably heavy with the need to knot, he almost thought he could make it last, but then Percival had begun to ride him in earnest. The slap of flesh against flesh was distinct despite the music that still played and all it took was his broken, “ _Please_.” To have Elyan pull him down into a rough kiss as his knot pushed and swelled inside him.

It wasn’t the mindless need of heat driving them but still he wanted, needed, to take what was offered. Had to claw at Percival’s muscled back as he came and bite back everything he wanted to say, like _breed_ , _claim_ , and _mine_ in his euphoria. Every insistent rock of his hips cause Percival to growl in a higher and higher pitch as his dick twitched and spurt thickly between their bellies. They laid there on the floor with music playing in the background as they talked in low tones, their clothes utterly ruined with the culmination of their desire, and tied closely together.

* * *

**33.**

Warning: voyeurism

Title: Shhh it's a library 1/2

Geoffrey loves his books as if they were his children, more so since he can't stand the snotty brats; and so he is willing to _do anyt_ hing to protect them from harm's way, especially if the culprits are the crown prince and Gaius's bo **y.**

 **The crown p** rince

Geoffrey is doing his usual cleaning in the back of his library when he hears some weird noises from around the corner, peeking through the shelves he frowns as he sees the crown prince sneaking around the various shelves. Shrugging to himself he goes back to work.

A while later Geoffrey's concentration is broken by weird panting noises and soft murmurs from that section of his library, so he walks over there and freezes in place, there, in front of him is the crown prince, his breeches around his ankles and his hand is working over his erect penis while he moans his manservant's name.   
Geoffrey notes with anger that the prince is staring at one of the rarest books in his collection, he is currently looking at the image with the two young males in the middle of intercourse and his eyes are bright and dark with lust.   
Geoffrey rolls his eyes and turns around; it's the prince's business after all.

After the prince leaves and Geoffrey sees the damage to his favorite book, his eyes narrow w _ith r_ age, now it's his business.

Gaius's boy

Merlin is always coming and going into his library with various requests, usually at odd times, but this, looking for books in the middle of the night? He wonders if he should help him and decides against it, after all Merlin knows he is here and will call for help.

Half an hour later Geoffrey is worried and tired so he goes to look for young Merlin himself.

He should have known better, he thinks to himself as he stars at Merlin in the same position as his master and, Geoffrey focuses his old eyes, why yes, it is the same book, the one that Geoffrey spent all his afternoon cleaning after the prince.

When Merlin reach his completion all over the book while crying the crown prince's name Geoffrey sighs and decides that something must be done.

Shhh it's a library 2/2

The "pfshpb" –Plan For Saving His Poor Books

Geoffrey is very good at observing and so it isn't hard to notice that the crown prince is coming every day when he thinks Geoffrey is busy cleaning the back of his library.

Merlin comes at night so Geoffrey devises a sneaky plan to make sure they'll meet.

When they do meet Geoffrey thinks about giving them a bit of privacy but the accusing face of his precious, rare book swims in front of him and he stays to watch over them.  
**********************************************************************  
Merlin walks quickly into that section and hopes Geoffrey won't catch him, he has no idea how the book found its way to his bag but he is sure he didn't put it there. His hopes for meeting no one are ruined when he turns the corner and sees Arthur, looking for something in these shelves and mumbling to himself.

Merlin coughs and Arthur spins around, flushed and panting.

"Merlin!" He looks alarmed.

"Err, Sire." Merlin mumbles back and shuffles.

"What are you doing here?" Arthur's eyes are sharp. "What's in your bag?"

"Nothing." Merlin tries but Arthur is quicker and a moment later he is holding the book.

Merlin flushes from head to toes and lowers his eyes, waiting for the mocking that will surely come but never does, instead, two gentle fingers lift his head and he finds himself staring into Arthur's eyes, Arthur's dark, lust filled eyes.

"Merlin…" Arthur breaths and Merlin doesn't care about the book or Geoffrey and he crashes his mouth to Arthur's, teeth clicking and hands tearing at clothing.

"God Merlin, I've, I've wanted this for so long…" Arthur breaths against his neck as he sucks bruises on the skin.

"Me too." Merlin whispers back as his hands sneak down to unlace their breeches.

"You idiot," Arthur berates as he scratches marks down Merlin's back. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"Me?" Merlin exclaims as his hand wraps around their weeping lengths, stroking faster and faster.

"Fuck, yeah, Merlin I," Arthur comes first, messing Merlin's cloths. "I love you." Arthur pants against Merlin's neck and Merlin comes.

Geoffrey walks away with a satisfied smirk on his face; his books are safe once again.

* * *

**34.**

Merlin was Arthur’s manservant, which meant he was Elena’s servant as well, sort of. He’d been ever so nice to her since the wedding, and at first Elena supposed Arthur must have ordered him to make her feel welcome. 

“It’s from Arthur,” he said as he fastened a new necklace around her neck, “A gift.” His hands lingered on her shoulders when he was finished with the fastening, and she could see him smiling in the mirror. 

“It’s lovely.” She fingered the fine chain. Merlin beamed. He’d probably picked it out himself, and the thought made her smile too. “You can tell him I like it very much. No, that’s not – I love it, tell him I love it. Or no, don’t say anything, I’ll wear it next time I dine with him – or will he notice if I do that?”

Merlin’s fingers grazed the skin of her neck. “I’m not sure. He will if I tell him to.”

“You do that, then,” said Elena. Merlin was still standing so close, skin touching hers.

A week or so after that, Elena found him in her room, arranging wildflowers in a vase on the table. She watched him for a moment – his neck was bare, he wasn’t wearing one of his scarves, the ones Arthur hated but Elena secretly thought made him look quite dashing – then cleared her throat. “Are those from Prince Arthur?” she nodded at the flowers.

“What?” said Merlin. “No, I – they’re from me. I was in the woods today. And, well –”

Before he could go on, Elena marched over, heels of her riding boots clicking on the flagstones, took a hold of his face, and kissed him, hard.

It was awkward, because he was too tall and she couldn’t decide whether to stand on tip-toes or try to make him hunch down, but he kissed her back, hot and desperate.

“Don’t do that,” he said, half into her mouth. “Arthur will kill me if he finds out. I mean, _actually_ kill me.”

Elena drew back, hands still on his face, one brushing his ear. “I don’t see why. I started it,” she said. “And besides, it’s not as if he never dallies with servants.”

Merlin’s brow furrowed. Then he said, “Wait, you know about that?”

“I’m not stupid,” she said. “I understand. He loves her. He doesn’t love me that way, and I don’t love him either, and that’s all very well, it’s just –”

“Just what?”

“Well, I have needs too,” she finished.

Merlin was a country boy. Not as experienced as country boys were _supposed_ to be, granted, but still with no sense of etiquette or what the _proper_ way to treat a lady was in the bedroom. 

He fucked Elena the way Arthur never had, cock sliding in and out of her so smooth and wet that she could hear it, the soft wet sounds of her own body moving. He fucked her until she was writhing against the pillows, hair wild, until she _mewled_ with pleasure.

His hand was on her thigh, squeezing where her muscles were all tensed, spreading her legs further apart, then pushing in again, and again, his face all screwed up so it should have been ugly, but it wasn’t.

Something gave. She felt herself pulse – _one, two, three_ – her body no longer her own, muscles flexing and clenching of their own accord, squeezing tight around his cock, and then it was over, she was done, gasping and trembling as he stuttered and begged his way through his own orgasm around her, and she was glad she’d come first, she liked this, she liked seeing him come apart so completely and knowing she’d done that to him.

“Oh god,” he said, cock slipping out of her, softening. “I can’t believe we just did that. Arthur is going to have my _guts_ if he finds out.”

“So he doesn’t find out.” Elena curled a hand through his hair. Her body was still on fire, she was burning between the legs, it’d probably hurt in the morning but she didn’t care. “Besides, you can always just blame me, it was my idea.”

She kissed Merlin to shut him up, one of his hands cupping her breast, thumbing roughly at her nipple, and when they drew apart he laughed and pressed his lips to the bridge of her nose.

“You’re adorable,” she said, then, “let’s go again, shall we?” After all, she was a woman, and she had needs.

* * *

**35.**

**Warnings:** Rimming, exhibitionism, dub-con of the 'we're a little drunk!' variety

Lancelot isn’t entirely sure how he ended up here with Leon spread over his desk, but he supposes it may have been inevitable. They’ve been dancing around each other for months. Not long ago, Leon had cornered him in the copy room and licked into his mouth with such enthusiasm that Lance spent the rest of the day with a hard on. 

Now that they’ve been celebrating the new important client with a champagne fountain and unnamed amounts of jelly shots, it really isn’t that surprising that Lance is pressing Leon into the desk with one hand at his back while the other is wrapped around Leon’s cock, pumping him with steady strokes. 

The actually surprising bit is Gwaine, lounging on the couch in Lance’s office, his legs spread wide as he fists himself, his eyes hooded as he looks over at them. And the even more surprising bit is how fucking hot it is to know that Gwaine is jerking himself off to the sight of Leon spread over his desk, clutching the edge of it as he grunts softly. 

“Touch his balls,” Gwaine says, suddenly, his voice low. 

Lance closes his eyes, almost embarrassed by the way his cock hardens at the sound of Gwaine giving him orders. He considers ignoring it because Gwaine is a smug bastard who always gets his way, but something about taking the orders is making his legs shake with want. 

When he reaches down and cups Leon’s balls, Gwaine and Leon groan at the same time and Lance thinks he might just come because _jesus_. 

“Use your tongue, Lance,” Gwaine says and Lance looks over at him, his eyes drawn to the way Gwaine’s hand is curling around his cock. “Lick his arsehole until he fucking comes all over your desk.”

Leon shudders under Lance’s hand, his knuckles whitening as he tightens his hold on the desk. Some voice in the back of his head says that he should feel some shame about this, but it’s drowned out by the fact that Leon is so hard under his hand that it seems like it should be painful. 

Lance swallows thickly and meets Gwaine’s eyes as he lowers himself into his chair, gripping at Leon’s hips and pulling him closer until he can press an open-mouthed kiss to the small of Leon’s back, mouthing along the swell of his arse. Leon’s breath is labored, but the moan comes from Gwaine. 

Spreading Leon’s cheeks with gentle hands, he kisses softly down the crease, his breath hot against the skin and Leon squirms under him until Lance has to grip him tighter, holding him in place as he flicks the tip of his tongue over the hole. Leon’s breath comes out in stuttering gasps and Lance presses closer, moving his tongue in slow strokes. 

“Fuck, he’s loving it, Lance,” Gwaine says, his voice choked. “You should see his face.”

Lance moans in response and Leon bucks against him with a needy whimper. His cock is pulsing almost uncomfortably when he moves a hand over to slip the tip of his thumb into the hole, licking around the edge of it to soothe the burn. Leon nearly arches off the desk, his thighs shaking with the strain. 

Gwaine gives a throaty laugh. “You’ve never had your arse licked before, have you? He’s doing it so good for you.”

“God,” Leon says through gritted teeth and Lance feels heady with all of it, ready to slam his cock into Leon until either Leon or the desk falls apart. But Gwaine had told him to lick him until he came and he feels a strange need to do as he’s been told. 

He replaces his thumb with his tongue, curling it a little as he pushes into Leon, fucking him until his jaw aches. Leon presses back into him, giving broken moans at every backward push of his hips. 

“Fuck, yeah, fuck his tongue, Leon. Shit, that’s so fucking brilliant.” Gwaine’s voice is strangled and Lance looks up, managing to catch a glimpse of Gwaine fucking up into his hand looking absolutely wrecked. 

It’s too fucking much: Leon’s hot arsehole clamping tight around him as he fucks into it, the sight of Gwaine coming apart. Lance reaches down, gripping himself tightly as Leon cries out and wraps a hand around his own cock, coming all over the desk in thick spurts. 

Lance sees Gwaine arch up into his own grip just as he comes gasping against Leon’s skin.

* * *

**36.**

"Have you heard what they've said? Of course you haven't, you're hardly awake, here, I'll read you the best of the reviews."

Lancelot sits up as Merlin climbs onto the bed and into Lancelot's lap, fully clothed and breathless with excitement. Merlin brings the weather with him, the scent of rain in his wild, dark hair and the chill of the early London morning in the folds of his greatcoat and half-tied cravat. 

"Inspired, incandescent, impossible. _Impossible_ , that's my favorite." Merlin reaches his arm out of the way while Lancelot pushes his coat off one shoulder, then shuffles the papers and letters from his left to right hand so Lancelot can push it off the other. "They're all true, though." 

"Inspired is probably the most true," Lancelot says and leans in to kiss the side of Merlin's neck. He waits for a sigh, and noses in behind Merlin's ear to inhale the scent of skin and smoke and rain. "Since the book is as much yours as it is mine." 

"Nobody cares about the frontispiece, it's your words, your poems, all brilliant." Merlin brandishes the papers in front of Lancelot before tossing them aside to flutter to the floor. "All impossibly brilliant." He rocks his hips into the cradle of Lancelot's lap and gives another sigh; he's already half-hard, his erection a warm press against Lancelot's palm. Lancelot feels himself grow hard at the contact and buries his face back in Merlin's neck to lick the rain and sweat from his skin. 

Lancelot longs for Merlin like he longs for ink and paper, like he longs for words to spool from the ink onto the paper and measure out the meter of his desire. He'd met Merlin in France, then again in Switzerland, and _The Castle and the Lake _had been written in a frenzy during their time in Lausanne. Hidden between lines and letters and scrawled into the margins of his manuscript he'd written the story of those three weeks and how Merlin had drawn half of his poems before Lancelot had even written them, how Merlin had drawn the words from him. Buried further still is the story of how their bodies moved against each other, the taste of Merlin's skin and the slide of Lancelot's hands over both their pricks, the soft moan of arousal Lancelot would give when woken by Merlin's mouth on his erection, the slickness of their bodies, moving against and unfolding around each other.__

He takes them both in hand now, pushing aside the bed linens and unbuttoning Merlin's trousers to thumb against the head of Merlin's cock. Lancelot's not even sure how awake he is yet; sleep still clings to his senses and Merlin's words seem unreal. His body is warm and solid, though, and the feel of his cock sliding against Lancelot's sums up all Lancelot wants from reality before the day starts. He strokes Merlin and strokes himself, lets warmth gather in the pit of stomach, then surges up to kiss Merlin as it uncoils through him. 

The kiss lasts longer lasts than their breath and Merlin is panting when Lancelot breaks it; he keeps his mouth and even his tongue close to Merlin's though, catching Merlin's lips against his own with every other stroke. Merlin closes his eyes, rests his forehead against Lancelot's, and tangles his fingers with the ones that close over his cock. Lancelot kisses the 'please' from Merlin's mouth before he's finished saying it and keeps his hand on Merlin until they're both sticky and sated. 

~

Later, Lancelot watches Merlin finally undress and come back to bed. "If you'd publish the other illustrations--"

"No. No, those are for you." Merlin tucks his body next to Lancelot's, half-curled, and nuzzles against his chest. "Nobody else would want to understand them." 

Half of London thinks him mad, broken by the events after the revolution in France, his art powered by opium and sleepless nights. Someday, though, Lancelot will tell another story, the one of how Merlin found him, broken and wordless and nearly insane because of it, and how Merlin bound their love and their longing to their very lives, to their words and art.

* * *

**37.**

The first meeting:

Leon and Will sat together quietly as they watched their best friends determinedly not- flirting with each at the bar, the awkward silence of their new acquaintanceship creating an uneasy atmosphere between them. Leon could feel Wills assessing gaze turns toward him, checking out his lean torso and muscled arms.

“So,” Will drawled out suggestively, “fancy a shag in the bogs?”

***

The third month:

“Do you sometimes feel as if we’re the side characters in an epic romance?” Leon asked as they watched Arthur race down the tube station, desperately searching for Merlins carriage, in parody of a romantic hero from a bygone cinematic classic.

“Oh please,” Will snorted in derision, “At best they’re a farce and at worst they’re a tragedy.”

Leon shifted closer to Will, gripping his hand tightly, as passer-byers began to pull out their phones and record Arthur making a tit of himself tapping on random train windows whilst shouting ‘Merlin’ in a fashion reminiscent of Brando in the famous ‘STELLA’ scene.

“Why would they be a tragedy?” Leon asked curiously, distracted from the drama unfolding before him.

“If we can stay together, despite your absolutely appalling taste in footie teams-“

“Oi, the Camelot knights are a great team!” Leon defended.

“-Then the tragedy is the fact that they can’t seem to get it together enough to even shag in the first place,” Will continued ignoring the interruption. 

Arthur regained their attention, obviously having found Merlin, as he attempted portray his message of eternal love through interpretive dance; his planned grand romantic speech foiled by the modern metro systems lack of unfastenable windows. 

“Definitely a farce,” Leon concluded, whipping out his phone to record the moment for prosperity (and blackmail). 

Will nodded his head in agreement.

***

The fourth month:

“You really need to leave your own toothbrush here,” Leon stated to Will over breakfast. “Sharing mine with you isn’t really hygienic.”

“You have your tongue in my mouth on near a daily basis, you tosser!”

“Just bring some of your things over, okay?”

***

The sixth month:

Will smiled as Leon moaned, spread out beneath him and tied to the bedposts with four leather cuffs. He bobbed his head to kiss Leon’s cock before paying special attention to the sensitive area right under the crown that made Leon whimper deliciously. He mapped a line down Leon’s erection with his tongue, sucking at his balls messily, devoutly examining both, one by one.

“You’re my Pet now,” Will crowed as he explored every muscle before him, “My glorious golden knight.”

Leon could only moan in reply, hoarse grunts his only vocalisation.

Will traced the leather cuff around one wrist with his tongue whilst leaning forward to scissor two lubed fingers viciously into Leon’s opening, brushing against his prostate once, twice, before he was arching off the bed in dazed ecstasy. Will brought himself over the edge, coming over Leon’s chest possessively, before undoing the cuffs and rubbing Leon’s wrists softly as they cuddled up together in exhaustion.

***

Now:

Leon was lying in a state of semi- wakefulness, when he felt the bed dip beside him, arms wrapping around his waist. The phone in Will's possession clattered to the floor forgotten as they curled around each other in an intimate embrace.

“We need new friends,” Will complained as he kissed Leon’s bare shoulder.

“I’ll start interviewing tomorrow then, shall I?” Leon said dryly, tucking himself further into his boyfriends arms, eyes closed in contentment. He felt the tension ease from his body as the day’s problems melted away.

“I can see the ad in the paper now, ‘Best Friends required. Must like gays. Merlins and Arthurs need not apply’.”

Leon snorted sleepily. “What did Merlin want?”

“Ahh, he just got back from his conference trip to find Arthur had killed their relationship plant.”

“Again? The stupid sods already replaced one without Merlin noticing!”

Will sighed heavily. “That sounds like Arthur,” he agreed. “I told Merlin to stop being such a girl and just face the fact that they should never buy a puppy but he kept going on and on about how it proves that Arthur doesn’t really ‘respect their relationship’ or some such bollocks,” Will ranted in exasperation. “I mean come on, a relationship plant? I love you Leon but if you ever buy us a relationship plant we are over.”

Leon hid his smile in Will's hair, placing a tender kiss upon his head. “And I love you,” he replied, resolving then and there to help Merlin and Arthur sort out their issues. After all, he contemplated; all epic love stories need the quirky best friends.

* * *

**38.**

The door to the gents is tucked in a shadowed corridor by a fire exit. Both stalls in the tiny loo have out of order signs dangling from the paint-chipped doors. Percival wonders if these toilets have ever had a purpose other than the current one.

He picks the second stall and kneels, waiting.

Sometimes no one comes and he kneels for hours, spending most of the time hard just from the anticipation. Those nights he goes to the gym after the bar and punches the fuck out of a leather bag until his knuckles bleed. He hates that he’s reduced to this. Hates that he stands out in a bar like a giant and discretion is impossible so he hides in here. Hates that he doesn’t know what his friends will think about him being queer and he’s too insecure to find out.

The blokes from work he goes out drinking with are just that: _blokes from work_. He barely knows them at all. So every Friday he sneaks off and waits on his knees, his eyes on an empty hole. 

Tonight he doesn’t wait long.

The lock on the stall beside him clicks and there’s a crinkle of a condom wrapper a second later. The bloke’s going to be a talker; already a low rumble fills the quiet toilet. Percival flips the button of his trousers, eager.

The dick’s long and thick, stuffing the hole. The sight of it makes Percival’s mouth water. He licks the tip like he's worshiping it. 

“God, Fuck. Someone’s there,” a strangled voice says and Percival takes in the head.

“You shouldn’t doubt me.” 

Percival freezes at the second voice. _Christ_ , there are two of them. 

“Do you like it?” It’s the second man, the one whose dick isn’t stretching Percival’s lips until they crack.

The clipped upperclass accent makes Percival gasp, choking in surprise as he recognises him as Arthur, that posh arse from Accounts who tagged along with their group tonight.

There's a dragged out, “Fuck!” And Merlin’s voice is unmistakable. 

“Some stranger’s choking on your huge cock and you love it, don’t you?” Arthur goads. There's a loud zip and the sound of a second condom wrapper crumpling.

Merlin thrusts further into Percival’s mouth, urging him on. Percival realises he hasn’t been moving. He can’t very well leave; they’d recognise him through the openings at the stall hinges. Arthur’s the sort to look. He keeps his lips wrapped around Merlin’s cock.

Percival can hear a wet smack and Arthur’s soft grunts as the thin wall separating them shakes; Merlin’s getting fucked through this, he realises.

“You’re so fucking hot like this,” Arthur moans into the next thrust. 

Percival closes his eyes to picture it: Merlin with his jeans at his thighs, his face pressed to the filthy stall as Arthur plunders him, his dick caught in the hole with an invisible mouth struggling to take his length. Prim and perfect Arthur, who always teases and mocks Merlin in meetings, says all the right things now to get Merlin off. The gentle reverence in Arthur's voice snaps Percival's control.

 

Percival’s hand is around his cock, pumping himself to Arthur’s rhythm – ashamed and jealous and so fucking turned on.

Merlin finishes first, spurting into the condom with a final thrust that has Percival wishing he’d pulled the condom off in time to let Merlin spray across his lips. 

Percival comes not long after. He’s usually quiet, terrified of somehow being recognised, but he can’t help himself, and for a minute he thinks he’s fucked up and said a name – either or both, he can’t be sure. There’s a painful silence where Percival holds his breath but then there’s a rustle of clothes. Not a word is shared between them and they’re gone.

He waits ages before he heads back to the crowded table of his work lads, slipping into a free chair. They carry on their conversation as if they hadn’t noticed he was gone. His eyes flicker around the group and his gut twists with guilt as Arthur looks up from Vivian’s flirting.

Arthur’s expression is blank as he hands Percival lip balm. “You split your lip, mate.” 

Percival stares at it, face hot. Any reply he can think of flies from his mind.

“Keep it,” Merlin says, “you might need it later.” His ears are flaring red, but his smile is blinding.

Before Percival slips it into his pocket, he sees there’s a phone number scribbled on the side.

* * *

**39.**

“Sword work is most important. Deflecting at the right time could save your life,” Arthur instructed, practicing with his Head Knight Sir Leon. 

Mordred thought magic would be easier really, but he looked closely and admired their strength and grace. True specimens of manhood indeed!

Afterwards he had a go, and although he fell within a few minutes, Arthur praised him saying, “at least you’re better than Merlin!”, which… coming to think about it, probably wasn’t much of a compliment. Though, seeing Merlin scowl had been worth it.

~

That night after the evening meal, Arthur summoned him into the Special Training Chambers. It was empty save for Merlin and some furniture. 

“Not only must we be skilled at thrusting and parrying on the field, our bodies must also be attuned,” Arthur said as a matter-of-fact, gesturing to Merlin.

“Merlin will be your subject tonight, seeing how you’re new to training.”

Merlin sulked, then sighed and started to unlace his clothes, leaving him in his underpants. Arthur tied his wrists efficiently and methodically and then jerked his underpants off in one movement.

Mordred was observing this closely, a mite confused.

“Sire, do you mean to say I am to… _take_ him?” There was really no delicate way to put this.

Arthur paused. He had been pulling at Merlin’s half-hard cock.

“No, rather. I want you to _fuck_ him, Mordred. We start with the basics at Camelot Boot Camp.”

“Oh,” Mordred replied. Iseldir hadn’t mentioned this when he’d sent him to become a knight of Camelot-cum-diplomat. 

Springing into action, he grasped the conveniently-placed bottle of sweet and poured it liberally over his hands.

It didn’t take long before he was thrusting into Merlin’s tightness, causing him to groan at the heat and the sheer feeling of magic surrounding him. 

Arthur stood beside the bed and offered prompting at times. Mordred did his best, and when he hit a particular spot in Merlin’s arse, Merlin screamed, his magic causing pleasure to flame in his veins. They came quickly, one after another, panting on the bed, the smell of sex and magic heavy and lingering in the air.

“You’re a natural, Mordred,” Arthur said, surprised, “usually Merlin’s magic gives the trainees a hard time. I think it likes you.”

“I really don’t,” Merlin said, still breathing hard from his climax.

“Sure you don’t.”

~

That night was just the start. The next day, Arthur had him doing weight endurance with metal balls. Mordred, who was used to meditating in the Druid camp, found this a much easier task than the swords. This earned him the respect of his fellow knights and much back-clapping, to his chagrin.

~

Again, Arthur summoned him to the Chambers after their meal. He had drunk quite an amount of wine at dinner, as his cup kept being re-filled every time he so much as took a sip. He should probably have used the privy before coming.

“Today’s lesson is endurance, as you’ve learned from the day’s training,” Arthur said, “I will see how long you can hold out before you have to relieve yourself.”

This time, Percival and Merlin were present. At Arthur’s instruction, Percival gently removed his breeches and began to stroke him to half-mast. He moaned. It felt wonderful, but he also needed to piss – badly. 

Mordred shuddered, struggling for control as Percival’s warm, firm fingers stroked and gripped him, tugging at the foreskin and stripping him.

He didn’t last long. 

He came hard, come splattering in thick, milky strands over Percival’s chest and then began to piss, the urine shooting out in a stream, running down his thighs and staining Percival’s night tunic. The room was silent and he stood in his shame, a small puddle forming at his feet.

“We’ll have to try this again,” Arthur said, “but do not fret. That is what training is for.”

~

The third day had him running around the castle with a bag full of rusty armour parts. It was cumbersome and tiring, but he managed to complete his rounds.

To his surprise, Arthur did not summon him that night.

Neither did he for the rest of the week.

He would have to wank to compensate, but it just wasn’t the same.

~

Right as he was about to think nightly training was over though, Arthur told him to oil himself the next night.

This time, all the knights were in attendance, grinning at him. 

It was going to be a long night.

* * *

**40.**

Warnings: Rough sex, rimming, abuse of a student/teacher relationship

The final battle was like the magical Big Bang, **unstoppable force meet immovable object** , when great things were unwritten. Magic went from being concentrated points like stars in the sky to dilute like dye in the water. On that final occasion their fates were linked together untouchable by time so that Arthur was the _Once and Final King,_ Once and For All.

\--

Grudges only lasted one reincarnation as most of them can’t even remember that they were once mighty let alone who they hated. It was on his death bed that Mordred understood his life-long neighbour and nemesis was Merlin, greatest magical rivalry in history pared down to two old men arguing over who could grow bigger pumpkins. 

\--

Then he was a hat maker, slowly driving himself mad with mercury and he _swore_ that the people that danced in and out of the edges of his life were familiar. He knew the girl who tends to the gardens and the footman of his patron lady. Mordred was dead before he figured it out. 

\--

Many generations passed as his soul grew tired. Now, he was a child in Paris by the name of Hugo. He knew he was meant for something but altogether unsure of what. Together him, and his life-long companion Isabelle (Morgana returned fiery bookworm’s body) reignite the imagination of a nation. 

His soul too was alive for the first time in so long. Destiny had forgotten them but they had not forgotten it. Suddenly the mediocre resolved into adventure once more. 

\--

Lancelot made the most delicious sounds when Mordred pried him open with his fingers. These pretty little choked off whines and shuttered gulps of air like he was shocked at the sensations Mordred was pulling from him. He’d babbled so very sweetly when Mordred pulled one of his arms behind his back, shoved him face down on the bed and ate him out until he was begging to be fucked. Lancelot had been almost sobbing with it because he was dripping with Mordred’s saliva, and so ready. Mordred revelled in the way he begged; he wasn’t often he was the oldest one. Still he gave in eventually _’Please, please, please_ ’. 

Lancelot’s pale thigh flexed under Mordred’s palm, working himself on Mordred’s dick. 

“Suck it.” Mordred commanded and Lacelot groaned. 

He shoved his fingers in Lancelot’s lush mouth, hooking two in the silkiness of his inner cheek. Lancelot let out a desperate half-whine, the angle forcing his head back and his back to arch lifting his ass so that Mordred was nailing him deeper with every thrust. 

“You like that?” Mordred growled against his hair, snapping his hips and shoving himself as deeply as he could. “Tell me boy.” 

“Y-yes.” He groaned, muffled by his fingers, Lancelot’s tongue sliding so wetly against his cuticles. 

Mordred slid his hand up the inside of his thigh, digging his nails into the soft skin there and using that to pull Lancelot flush against his hips. 

“Louder.” Mordred demanded. 

Lancelot whined pathetically, as if no one had ever taken him this way. Lancelot was young still and it was entirely possible no one had. The thought was unexpectedly hot. 

“Yes.” Lancelot groaned, sloppily mouthing at his fingers. 

“Good boy.” Mordred purred. 

He kept fucking him even as Lancelot came all over himself; face a mess of saliva and sweat, sobbing through it. Mordred snarled, pressing him down into the filthy bed and riding him to his own completion. 

“What do good boys say?” Mordred mocked, tangling Lancelot’s hair between his fingers. 

“Thank you professor.” Lancelot said, blinking coyly and Mordred laughed, pulling him into a harsh kiss. 

“Tart.” He bit at Lancelot’s lips tasting the shape of his smile. 

Oh, it might have been illegal but there was something about having one of Arthur’s most prized so intimately. Or maybe it was that when Lancelot walked into his Chemistry lecture with those ironic hipster glasses and tight pants Mordred had to have him. 

-

He saw Arthur on the television, standing straight in the Queen’s shadow looking regal and bored. Lancelot shifted against his side, long limbs spread across Mordred’s bed taking up more space than anyone that size should while tapping out a report listlessly. Mordred grabbed one of his skinny ankles, tugging on it laughing while Lancelot looked at him like he was crazy. 

“It’s going to be an adventure, pet.”

* * *

**41.**

Warnings: Dub-Con, Knight Orgy. 

The fires of Beltane danced to the heavens and Puck smiled to himself as he wove his spell into the flames. Ale flowed freely and as the moon crawled across the sky, inhibitions melted away with clothing. 

Puck laughed merrily, unseen by mortal eyes, as he waded through the writhing bodies of the citizens of Camelot. Debauchery that Bacchus himself would have been proud of, Puck watched with greedy eyes as naked bodies slid together and joined at their most shameful core. 

His breath caught in his throat when he stumbled upon a Gordian knot of sex that made his toes curl and his pulse quicken. In the back corner of the Rising Sun, the knights of Camelot had abandoned their regimentals and were engaged in some decidedly unchivalrous behavior. 

Puck licked his lips and settled into an empty chair. The big one’s (who looked a bit slow, if Puck were honest) hands were restrained with the very cape he prided himself upon wearing, and the one who resembled Jesus was straddling his chest and feeding his cock into his mouth. 

The dark one with flawless skin and fox-like eyes sucked his fingers into his mouth and then shoved them up his bum, his eyes closed and his face lined with pleasure. Puck watched as one, two, then three fingers disappeared into the space between his crack. 

Puck licked his lips and snapped his fingers, making the pretty one with hair that had obviously been magically enhanced, forget his reflection (Honestly, Puck mused to himself, who wanks over their own image? Narcissus’ ain’t got nothin’ on that bloke.) and turn to the dark knight to replace the other’s fingers with his own. 

He watched as their lips met and their tongues tangled. The pretty one shifted their bodies so that Foxxy straddled his hips and was in position to sink down on Pretty’s somewhat unimpressive shaft. Puck laughed and clapped his hands, delighted with Pretty’s obvious compensation issues. 

Puck spared a moment to watch the knight ride the other before he turned back to Big ‘n Slow eating Jesus’ cock. Jesus’ head was thrown back and his face was a picture of perfect agony. As he thrust his hips forward to feed his cock deeper down Big’s throat, he reached back and worked Big’s cock slowly, expertly with his hand. 

A door slamming against the wall distracted Puck from the bodies before him. 

“Who are you and what have you done?”

Puck groaned theatrically and looked at the intruding party pooper. He was tall, reedy, and had ears that were large enough to make the man take flight were they to start flapping. 

“Ugh! Don’t be tedious.” Puck said, motioning to the room at large. “A little Beltane fun, nothing more.” 

“You can’t be allowed to--!”

“Merlin, who are you talking to?” 

Puck’s clapped his hands with glee when a second figure stood at the threshold of the Rising Sun, adding a newer, fun element to the game. The king himself had arrived, and looked at the tall, thin man with exasperation and ire until Puck snapped his fingers and wove his spell a little deeper. Suddenly the king’s eyes glazed over and he noticed the writing mass of knights fucking in the corner of the inn. He licked his lips, promptly forgot Ears, and moved over to them.

Puck couldn’t help but laugh as the king stripped off his kit and sat down straight on top of Big ‘n Slow’s cock. 

Ears pulled frantically at his hair. “Arthur!” He turned to Puck and narrowed his eyes. “Make this stop.” 

Ugh. Ears was a total wet blanket. “Boring!” Puck jumped down from the stool he had been occupying and danced around the room. Morals were so tiresome, and Ears seemed to have them in spades. He snapped his fingers and sent Ears, well, he wasn’t quite sure where he sent Ears. Tatiana could deal with that later. 

Alone again, Puck satisfactorily brushed his hands together and turned back to the knights. He gave them one last, long, lingering glance before he left the tavern to seek other sights before the night was over. 

Behind him, the flames of Beltane curled and crackled, bigger and brighter than ever before. Puck laughed and danced through the night.

* * *

**42.**

**Warnings:** Bondage, rough sex. 

Leon finds Elyan in the forge, in the middle of a drift of chainmail.

'You know, we have armourers to do this,' Leon says, sitting next to him.

Elyan grins. 'Well, I like doing it. It's relaxing. And I do it better.' He cocks his head. 'Were you looking for me?'

Leon still hasn't managed to confess to Elyan why he seeks him like this, although God knows the knight has asked enough times. He tries to say something now, and can't get the words out. Elyan sees that, and puts his pliers aside and climbs into Leon's lap without any further ado. 'You found me,' he says, instead of another question.

Throat dry, Leon whispers, 'Will you take me to bed?'

***

Elyan is beautiful naked in candlelight the way steel is beautiful in a fire, glowing and gold-edged. They're tangled together in the middle of his bed, and he's running his hands over Leon's body like he's still checking chainmail. 

Leon clears his throat, gone hoarse with anticipation, and says 'Please -'

Elyan knows what he wants. He made these for Leon, after all. They clink, link after link, as he draws them out from under the bed, and they rattle as he attaches them to the bedposts. Clicking them shut around Leon's wrists, however, is silent - the manacles are padded inside with fur. The only sound then is the moan Leon cannot stifle before it escapes. 

Elyan pushes Leon down into the blankets, one hand flat on his chest, and Leon goes into it, letting his arms stretch above his head, chained to the solid oak bed.

'Is this all right?' Elyan asks, concerned.

'It's fine,' says Leon, already wanting more than he can say. Elyan drags his hand down over Leon's chest and tweaks a nipple gently, watching the way Leon's breath hitches with calm assessment in his dark eyes, tweaks harder to get out a gasp, then _pinches_ , and Leon cannot help the moan that rips its way out. 'God, Elyan, please -' he stutters, and Elyan nods, kisses him gently on the mouth. 

'Anything you want,' he says. ' _Anything_.' 

His teeth find the soft place above Leon's collarbone, one hand twists white-hot at Leon's nipple, and his other hand takes hold of Leon's cock, soft pleasure to run under the careful, precise pain he's causing. 

Leon bucks, Leon twists, writhes, shoves into every pressure-point Elyan has on him, and Elyan's cock drags wet lines against his thigh, but the cold iron doesn't Leon go and neither does Elyan himself, aligning them so they can rut against each other and taking his wet hand further down. 

'Let me in,' he mutters into the abused skin of Leon's neck, and Leon's legs fall open like a tavern whore's. 

Elyan's fingers are glorious, slicked with Leon's mess, as he carefully teases Leon open. It isn't much wetness to ease with, but they had each other in the stables this morning, and in Leon's bed last night, and Leon is good at controlling his body.

Elyan drags his other hand down from Leon's nipple to his thigh, his nails scoring lines along the way. 'Can you take more?' he asks. 'Another?'

Four fingers presses hard against Leon's defenses. He starts to lose awareness of anything but the heat inside him. When the head of Elyan's cock, thicker and wetter than fingers, nudges against him, Leon pushes to meet it; begging, desperate.

'How do you want this?' Elyan asks through gritted teeth when he's inside Leon, as if he doesn't know. 

It's effort for Leon just to make the one word. 'Hard.'

They come quickly, Leon first, blindingly, achingly, his fluids hot as they touch the red places Elyan's marked him, and Elyan afterwards, arched hard over Leon's body, his eyes burning with something more than need.

***

'Why do you let me do this to you?' Elyan asks, running the cool washcloth over the places he hurt. 

Leon is still burnt out and swimming in the peace that this brings him. It takes him a moment to register the question, another to find the answer where it's floating in his mind. 'Because you make such beautiful things,' he says.

* * *

**43.**

Warning: Character Loss

Slowly, the knight gathered the shattered atoms of his being, calling them, reuniting them grain by grain, until he stood whole again.

Not whole.

Incomplete.

He knelt before the Seelie Court, confessed the failure of his task. Confessed the longing, the emptiness, the futility of his existence,. He knelt, and he wept with the loss.

In time, the Sidhe Elder bid his knight rise, and charged him with a new task. Make himself whole.

***

Gaius examined his frail patient carefully, lifting each dull eyelid in turn, peering into her mouth, pinching the pale beds of her nails. He smelled her breath, rolled a lock of limp hair between his fingers, pressed the hollow cavern of her belly. “Tell me again, Princess, of your ailment.”

Princess Elena drew in a weak breath, voice wavering before the ring of concerned faces surrounding her. “It… began during our last visit to Camelot. I was fine until... something changed. At first it was freeing, a great burden lifted from my shoulders. But now... food is dust in my mouth, it no longer nourishes me, and wine does not quench my thirst. Sleep is long in coming, and brings no rest. Music sounds flat. Colours are duller – the sun itself is dimmer. It’s as if a shadow clouds my world.”

Gaius exchanged a sharp glance with Merlin, then bid the Princess continue.

“'Tis not merely senses. I am hollow, an empty shell. My “self”, the Elena that I have always been – she is gone, lost. I hear her call for me – ‘Elena, Elena’ – but seek as I might, I cannot find her. I cannot find myself.” The princess buried her face in frail hands, wept dry tears that would not flow.

“Can you help her?” demanded the King. “Can you help my Elena?”

“We shall see,” replied Gaius. He took the girl’s hands in his, whispering, “Oh, my dear girl. We have done you a grave injustice.”

***

Merlin stood before the Gates of Avalon, scepter raised. As he spoke ancient words, time slowed - leaves ceased their flutter, water stilled. “I can give you only a few moments, Princess," the young man warned urgently. "You MUST return when I call, or you will be trapped Underhill, in the realm of the Sidhe..”

Eyes fixed on the clearing before her, Elena nodded, and stepped forward.

The mists parted to reveal a vibrant landscape, lush and mystical as any Elena had seen. Gnarled roots and twining branches framed the crystal waters of a small lake. Mossy rocks peeked from a small waterfall cascading as backdrop to the song of birds and frogs. Flowers in every colour wove through branches of greenery. Throughout it all, tiny sparks of light twinkled and danced. She could feel the land breathing, the very heart of the earth beating beneath her feet.

A man waited for her, armor gleaming silver, helm of brightest gold. Silken hair of white-platinum framed a face of unearthly beauty. His pale eyes held such unbridled longing that she gasped, heat and need coiling within her. As in a dream, she fell into his arms, gown and armor melting away like snow.

They lay on a bank of emerald grass dotted with jewels of bright flowers. His lips traced her skin, left molten lava in their wake. Where he touched her, she came alive, body singing into his touch. When he slipped between her thighs, she opened to him in welcome – seeking, needing. The pain of joining was inconsequential, as waves of pleasure and arousal and deepest need washed over her.

 _Elena._ She heard a voice call in the far distance.

But she was so close - so close to finding the elusive something she sought. She ground up desperately against the knight, fingers digging into his shoulders as she urged him closer, deeper. She needed… she wanted…

 _Come, Elena._ The voice was powerful, insistent. But something was uncoiling within her, releasing slowly outward to encompass her, pulling him inwards – something bright, something ecstatic. She was so CLOSE…

_Elena. You must return. The gates are closing._

The knight pulled her tight, held her still as her soul shattered and reformed inside her, bursting in wave after wave of purest bliss. 

_Elena!_ The anguish of the call was faint, fading… gone.

Elena gazed up at her knight – tears streamed down both faces. 

“My soul.”

“My heart”

Whole.

* * *

**44.**

Balinor gazed at Hunith from behind the curtain separating their small hut in two. Hunith's full belly was contrasted attractively by the moonlight filtering through the open window. The slight summer breeze had made her swell with sensitive gooseflesh and Balinor shivered in sympathy when the breeze reached him.

"You're beautiful," Balinor said as he crept closer to the bed. When he finally reached it, he clasped Hunith's hand in his own and bent down for a kiss. His free hand instinctively curled around her belly and his thumb stroked a slow rhythm that won him a kick from the babe within. Hunith's pale skin was flushed from the attention and she squirmed on the bed.

"Soon, we'll have not time for these things," Hunith said before she rolled on to her side and made room for Balinor. His hand was tugged on brusquely and he had to stop himself from falling on top of Hunith. Hunith's eyes shone with mirth.

"Best take advantage of the time we do have, then," Balinor said.

Hunith tugged on his hand again and Balinor finally acquiesced and climbed onto the bed. He ran his fingers lightly over Hunith's chest and hips before he cupped her swelling breasts. His thumbs swiped over the hardening nipples and came away with moisture.

"You're leaking," Balinor said and a flash of surprised arousal surged through his body.

"Not just there," Hunith said as she grasped one of Balinor's hands and put it between her slick thighs. Balinor smiled at Hunith and cupped her pubic mound. He squeezed slightly and was rewarded with Hunith thrusting her hips toward him. Balinor pulled away slightly and urged Hunith to lie on her back.

"May I?" Balinor asked when he was hovering over Hunith. His mouth was poised over Hunith's breast and left no confusion as to what he was asking.

"Yes," Hunith said. Her breathing was slowly becoming unsteady. She gasped and arched up into Balinor's mouth as he lapped at her swollen breast. She moaned when he bit down, sucked, and used his free hand to squeeze her breast.

Balinor's mouth was flooded with a slightly bitter substance. It wasn't the true milk that would come after birth, but Balinor sucked like it was giving him the sustenance he needed to survive. He pulled away to suck in some needed air and trailed his hand between Hunith's legs. His hand moved easily against her slick skin and he rubbed his fingers up against her. He made her moan as he rubbed against her clitoris with his thumb and brushed his fingers against her entrance.

He teased her and moved his fingers more firmly against her opening. He only let the smallest bit of his fingers push inside and matched his stroking to the throbbing he felt on his thumb.

"Please," Hunith begged and Balinor finally let two fingers slip inside. He pushed them in and out of her body and Hunith squeezed around them. He knew it wasn't enough for her, though. He slowed his rhythm and pulled away from her.

"Wait. Climb on top of me," Balinor said after he'd settled himself up against the wall. 

Hunith shifted to straddle Balinor's hips but the extra weight around her middle shifted her slightly and she ended straddling his thighs.

Balinor laughed as he slid further down the wall and lined them up better. He pushed his clean hand through Hunith's hair and pulled her down to a kiss. Hunith indulged him for a minute before she pulled away.

"I want," Hunith said and she didn't complete her sentence. She wrapped her hand around Balinor's leaking cock and guided it inside her, sinking down until their pelvises met. She rocked forward on his cock and moaned.

"You're perfect. Lean forward," Balinor said as he grasped Hunith's hips with both hands. He supported her and didn't hinder her movements.

Hunith leaned forward again and Balinor wrapped one of his hands around the breast he'd neglected earlier. He squeezed and lapped up the liquid that beaded there.

"Balinor!" Hunith exclaimed as she moved her hips up and down on his cock. 

Balinor felt her squeeze her muscles around him knowingly at first, but her rhythm soon faltered and Hunith was coming. Balinor felt her muscles convulse around his cock haphazardly and thrust up a few more times before he surrendered to his orgasm.

Hunith collapsed against Balinor's shoulder and he ran calming hands down her back.

"The baby will be perfect," Balinor assured as he rubbed his hands over Hunith's belly and felt the kicks there, "Already a feisty babe, see?"

* * *

**45.**

It was kind of Gwen to open her flat to him, saving him from having to get a hotel room on top of the tux, the plane ticket and the wedding gift. Not to mention the no doubt multiple bar tabs, if he knows his friends at all. Gwen lets him in with a smile and a hug. 

“Percy, this is my brother, Elyan.” Gwen says. “El, this is Gwaine’s friend, Percival.”

Elyan’s smile is brilliant, his handshake warm. “Pleasure,” Percival manages. 

“Oh, it’s all mine, I’m sure.” Elyan returns, and Percival will swear he imagines the wink.

+++

Percival shifts, sinking further into the plush cushions of Gwen’s couch. Just as he’s settled, his bladder protests. Percival sighs and hails himself up to go to the bathroom. As he’s returning down the hall, he hears a noise that sounds like distress from the room across the hall. Percival raises a hand to knock on Elyan’s (slightly ajar) door when he hears the noise again.

It’s definitely not distress.

The bed is just visible through the crack in the door. Elyan is lying on top of the covers, bare as the day he was born, and he’s...

Percival’s cock stirs in his pants, and his face flames. A small part of his brain tells him he shouldn’t be watching this. But really, it’s Elyan’s fault for not checking to see if the door was fully shut before having a wank while there’s guests in the flat. 

Percival holds his breath, presses closer to the door, and Elyan doesn’t notice the door move just a fraction. Thank god it didn’t squeak. 

Elyan’s hand strokes languidly over his cock, shining with lube in the dim light from the open window. The other runs over his chest, scratching lightly, tugging at his nipples. Elyan moans again and Percival presses the heel of his hand to his dick. He watches, rapt, as Elyan’s stomach quivers, and he plants his heels on the mattress and rolls his hips into his hand. Percival’s own hand starts to move over his dick. 

_No, absolutely not._ The voice says again. _That is a terrible idea._

Whatever, he’s got time to make an escape. Percival reaches inside his pants, stomach churning, holding his breath so as to not make any noise. The cloth is constricting, but Percival does his best to match Elyan’s rythmn, captivated by the movement of his hips, the way his hand squeezes every third stroke or so. 

And the noises, holy shit. Percival could get off just by listening to Elyan’s hitching breaths and low moans. But as it is, it’s even better to watch him, the movement of his hips and hands. Elyan speeds up, and Percival follows, pleasure building in time to the rise in Elyan’s breathing, the pitch of the noises he’s making. 

Elyan goes still, and his hips buck once, twice as he starts to come over his hand, mouth open in a silent scream. 

Percival’s orgasm hits like a punch to the gut, and he grabs the door frame for support as he comes in his pants. On the bed, Elyan is swiping a facecloth over his chest and dick, and then rolls over and goes to sleep. 

Percival turns and heads back to the bathroom.

* * *

**46.**

_Pop! Pop!_

Below, so distant they could hardly be heard under the roar of the small plane's engines, tiny bursts of color sprang up in the night and faded. Here, a red one opened like a flower. There, green shivered to gold before tumbling earthward again, fading.

Alice kneeled on her seat and pressed her nose to the thick window. She could see a dozen towns beneath them, colors springing up from each in unique patterns and styles. A blue and white finale began over Mercia, while Gwynned burst into a fountain of flame.

"Beautiful," she breathed.

In the pilot's seat of the tiny aircraft, Merlin glanced back at her and smiled mischievously. "Hang on," he said, swinging them into a wide, slow arc that tipped the wing in front of her down, pressing her even tighter to the glass. The land below her was a sea of darkness, broken only by the bright colors. She laughed like a child.

_BANG!_

She felt more than saw the immense arc of lightning that leapt from the cloud beside them to a distant cloud, several miles away. A flash of light engulfed them simultaneously with the sound that seemed to grab the tiny aircraft and shake it like a dog with a bone. Merlin's fingers went white on the controls. He leveled them out quickly, hunching forward.

After that, the heat lightning took over, drowning out the show below with a display of its own. The raw power of nature flexing its muscles, joining in the celebration with a reminder of who was truly powerful here.

They landed in the dark, wind lashing at the wings, with only a faint set of lights to guide them in. Merlin did it more by feel than sight, stretching out his magic so far Alice could feel it over the storm. Trustingly, she closed her eyes and waited for him to bring them down.

The moment they had touched down and taxied into the hangar, she was up out of her seat. Merlin caught on to her urgency, unloading their bags quickly. It wasn't raining yet, but with the wind lashing the trees outside, it would be soon.

"Thank you," she said quietly, laying a hand on Merlin's arm.

"You're welcome," he chirped, lifting both their bags, seeming to understand she meant more than just carrying her duffel.

A short walk over the hill and they were in Ealdor. The fireworks were already over here, but she could still smell powder and magic in the air, even as the wind whipped it away. The Smiths nodded greetings from their front porch. Hunith waved from the window above the grocery, and Merlin blew her a kiss.

And there. Their own house, coming into view. Freya came running out, and Merlin dropped both bags to pick her up and twirl her around, setting her down on her toes again before kissing her soundly. Alice smiled, moving past them at a more sedate pace to stop at the bottom step and take Gaius's hand, leaning into him.

"I'm glad you're home," he murmured, worry and pride mixed in his gravel voice.

It finally began to rain, chasing them all inside.

***

Hours later, she lay in their bed with her cheek on Gaius's shoulder, listening to the children go a second round through the thin walls and trying not to laugh.

Gaius smiled, then shadows chased it from his face. "The negotiations?"

"As well as can be expected. With the Saxons still pressing, Camelot is more willing to court than coerce."

He looked away, pensive. "I should be-"

"No, love," she told him firmly, as the bed in the next room slammed into the wall in time with Freya's cries. "You should be here, helping build Ealdor. The influence you once had with Uther is gone."

"I don't regret it." He spoke low, under Merlin's desperate whines. "I don't regret following you, even if I might have helped more by staying."

Ah, her beautiful, guilt-ridden husband. Revolution never suited him, and yet a revolutionary he had become. Three dozen states stood independent in the wake of the Great War between Camelot and the Saxons, urged on by the rhetoric of freedom from Camelot's own Prince Heir. And there in the background was Gaius, advising and cajoling and forming the alliances that kept them free.

Merlin and Freya gasped their completion next door as Alice curled tighter into her husband's arms. 

"The people are celebrating," she whispered. "Tonight, let's join them."


	3. Group C (with warnings)

**47.**

_Arthur dragged the ice cube sensually down Merlin’s stomach, following after it with languid kisses. He relished in the way Merlin groaned against the feeling of the abrupt coldness against his warm skin, and Arthur lapped at the rivulets of water that were gathering on his body._

_“Arthur,” Merlin gasped. “Stop teasing me.”_

_Arthur chuckled against Merlin’s skin. “Oh, I haven’t even started yet,” he murmured._

“No, no, no, no, no!” Elena shouted at her computer. “No, this isn’t right at all!”

She threw her hands up dramatically as she sat frowning at the screen (more specifically, the characters on it). “Why isn’t this working?”

Elena Gawant, better known by her pen name E. Quinn, was a writer by trade, and had written a number of books thus far in her career; but her most well-known work was the _Corrosion_ series. It was about a sorcerer (Merlin) and an ex-police officer (Arthur) both on the run from the government, and they were definitely some of her favourite characters to work with.

In fact, she loved the two of them dearly, but after writing their story for five years now it was time to let go. This book was to be the last, but unfortunately it was refusing to be written—she hadn’t had writer’s block of such calibre since the time her cat ran away a few years back (luckily, Freya had been found in the end).

Elena was determined to finish it though, no matter what. She owed it to herself and her readers both to give Merlin and Arthur a satisfying conclusion after everything they’d been through, and so she leaned forward once again, placing her fingers on the keyboard.

_Arthur wrapped his fingers loosely around Merlin’s cock, stroking it gently and watching Merlin slowly fall apart beneath him. The ice cube was melting in his hand, so he rubbed it gently across Merlin’s stomach once more, grinning as Merlin let out a desperate whine. He loved how receptive Merlin always was, and as a reward Arthur replaced his fingers with his mouth, allowing his free hand to travel downward, past Merlin’s balls to prod at his entrance._

_“Oh_ fuck _,” Merlin said, and Elena debated putting herself out of her misery because this wasn’t working out in the slightest._

Elena sighed and deleted the last sentence, propping her chin up on her hand as she stared dejectedly at the words. Eventually, she simply clicked on the x at the corner of the document.

_Do you want to save the changes to finalchapter?_

_No._

-

“How goes the writing, love?”

“Horribly,” Elena responded, but she still managed to smile when Mithian sat down next to her and pressed a brief kiss to her cheek.

“I’m sure you’ll manage to think of something,” Mithian said.

Elena snuggled against Mithian, resting her head on her girlfriend’s shoulder. They had met at a book signing for _Skin/Bones_ —the first book in the _Corrosion_ series—and hit it off immediately. Even years later, Mithian still remained one of her biggest fans, and was always willing to offer encouragement when it was needed. 

“Hopefully, but it doesn’t make it any easier when my dragon of an editor keeps breathing down my neck and shouting about ‘destiny’ or what have you.”

Mithian patted Elena’s leg consolingly. “How about I give you some inspiration?”

Elena’s eyebrows shot up as she caught onto the meaning of Mithian’s words, and she scrambled to her feet. “Well, if you insist,” she said eagerly, dragging Mithian toward their bedroom quickly.

-

_“Ready?”_

_“No,” Merlin said seriously._

_“Well, you don’t have a choice.”_

_Merlin couldn’t suppress a laugh. “I’m ready.”_

_“Together, then?”_

_Merlin grasped Arthur’s hand in his._

_“Together.”_

Elena closed the book with a smile. It had taken time, but _Fire/Ashes_ was finally published. It was somewhat bittersweet; Merlin and Arthur had been her favourite characters, after all, but at the same time it was nice. They’d finally gotten their own sort of ending together.

And on the bright side, it meant Elena could move onto other things; she had dedicated most of the past few years to _Corrosion_ and she was looking forward to starting something new.

Turning to her computer, she opened a blank document with a smile, already having a plan in mind for what to write.

_It was supposed to have been a simple smuggling job, but when Tristan met Isolde, he knew nothing was going to be simple ever again..._

* * *

**48.**

 

 **Warnings:** Voyeurism

 

George was a good boy.

He had been raised in a good home by a good family and, even as a child, had known that his destiny lay in Camelot. He didn’t need prophecy to tell him this, or riddle-loving dragons. No, George knew his purpose in life because he knew _himself_ ; and what he knew was that he was born to serve.

And George was _good_ at it. Better than good. He threw himself heart and soul into his job, and his master’s each wish was considered his own, only infinitely more precious. George would go to the ends of the earth to fulfil his duty to his master. It was only when he had accomplished whatever was asked of him that he would allow himself to believe that he was a Good Servant and, as Mother had always said, a Good Boy.

And George _was_ a good boy, yes. But that is not to say that he had no weaknesses. And if he had any one weakness, it was this: he was ambitious. Not in the usual sense, no – George had no desire for riches and power and fame. All he desired was to be the Best Manservant in all of Camelot, and to serve as best as he possibly could. And there was only one household wherein the Best of the Best served: the royal house of the Camelot.

It took time, but George slowly managed to work his way up the social ladder. Higher and higher he ascended and still his star showed no signs of falling. Merchant, to noble, to lord, to baron … Each position was merely a step in his ladder of ascent and slowly but surely, he was climbing to the top.

And then it happened. His dream, the one he’d had since he was a boy of five, finally came true. 

He was made Manservant to the Prince of Camelot.

However hard George had worked, it was nothing to his efforts now. Every bruise of the knee, every burn of muscle, every bit of dirt scraped painstakingly from each corner of the Royal Bedchamber – it was all done with a furious dedication that put all of George’s previous efforts to shame. He was finally satisfied that _no one_ , let alone that ridiculously poor excuse for a manservant that his Prince’s previous man had been, could ever come close to doing what _he_ could. He was, without a doubt, the Best Manservant in all of Camelot. He would finally be recognised for his work, his efficiency, his _dedication_ ; and then he would be rewarded with the only suitable prize: a permanent position as Prince Arthur’s manservant.

Confident in his prospects, George decided to do one final check on His Highness before retiring for the night.

His first intimation that something was wrong was the noise. There were groans coming from within – harsh, painful-sounding noises that alarmed George. Fearing that his lord was sick, George carefully pushed the door open.

And stared.

There on the bed, _naked_ and _writhing_ in whorish ecstasy, was the prince’s _old_ manservant. And there, right beside him – right _on top_ of him – and equally bare was the Prince, who was jerking his hips roughly against his servant’s, grunting with each rough thrust that he made.

‘Arthur!’ the Prince’s former manservant gasped. ‘Arthur – please! Faster!’

The Prince, far from hushing the other, groaned at the sound of his words.

‘God, Merlin!’ he moaned, picking up the pace and physically _slamming_ their hips together. ‘Fuck – want you here always. In my bed. On my _cock_.’

George watched, frozen, as the two men crashed against each other almost violently, the one pushing in and the other thrusting himself back. Each grunt and moan had his stomach twisting fiercer; each slap of flesh had him tensing further and he was now coiled tighter than he had ever been in his life.

Merlin suddenly gave a loud cry and then the Prince was shoving into him even harder than before: once, twice, thrice and then he made a sound like a roar, before slumping over the other.

George swallowed, relaxing. Looking down, he knew that the front of his trousers was wet. He took a deep breath. Then, raising a trembling hand, he closed the door.

Yes, George was a good boy – most of the time – and an ambitious one.

But he was also realistic, and this day had shown him one thing:

He would never be Manservant to the Prince of Camelot.

* * *

**49.**

“It’s a lovely evening,” Mithian says. It is: the moon is full and bright, casting a glow over the grounds, and she’s enjoying walking with Lord Arthur through his estate, her arm in his.

There are a number of things she likes about Arthur - likes, not loves. His kindness, his laugh, the particular way he ducks his head when he’s embarrassed, and the solid strength of him, the steel. He’s warm against her side, a nice contrast with the evening breeze. They turn a corner, and that’s when Merlin comes bursting through the hedgerow.

"Arthur," Merlin begins, pauses. "Good evening, Lady Mithian," he says, cocking his head at her, the motion as close to a formal servant's bow as he'll probably ever come. "Arthur," he says again, more urgent, “there's an emergency. In the duck pond."

" _What_?" Arthur has a special tone of incredulity he uses just for Merlin. It's quite loud.

"An emergency," Merlin repeats. "In the duck pond."

"What _sort_ of emergency, Merlin?"

Merlin shrugs. "With the ducks."

Arthur takes his leave of Mithian with an exasperated formality, but without any real sense of regret. She should make her way back to the terrace and Arthur's other houseguests, but the hedged pathways could almost be counted as a maze, and if she takes a wrong turn, who's to blame her?

By the time Mithian arrives at the pond, everything is calm. Three ducks with ruffled feathers are floating about, occasionally squawking. Arthur and Merlin are sitting on the stone wall at the pond's edge. Arthur's trousers are neatly rolled up, while Merlin is soaked, head to toe.

They stand at her approach, and Mithian can't help the way her eyes linger on Merlin, the slimness of his torso on display with his suit plastered to him; more on display below the waist besides, the outline of things she's not yet seen on a man, things that are... interesting.

Arthur walks her back to the house. His arm is wet when he offers it to her, from where it had been draped across Merlin's back.

The next evening is less lovely. Storms roll across the sky.

The ladies retire to the parlour for bridge; the men to the gameroom, for billiards and whisky. It would defeat the purpose of Mithian’s visit for she and Arthur to separate, so they end up in his private library, sitting across a chessboard.

“You’re a worthy rival," Arthur says. Mithian imagines it’s one of the nicest things he knows to say about anyone. “Merlin’s terrible, every move is written on his face before he gets round to making it.”

Mithian can imagine it: Merlin biting his lip, frowning at some pieces, smiling at others, beaming when he’s thought of something clever, and generally driving Arthur to distraction.

“He’s been with you a long time,” Mithian says. It’s a guess, but it also isn’t, the way one ends where the other begins.

“Five years.” Arthur pauses. “Six? Forever.”

 _It will be,_ Mithian thinks, this time a prediction.

Arthur stands. At first she thinks he’s going to the drinks cabinet, but he fiddles with an object on a bookshelf, and a door suddenly swings out between the rows of books. “The best thing about this room," he says. "If I need something in the night, I can just slip down through here and get it.”

Beyond the door is a dark passageway. Mithian can barely make out the beginnings of a staircase in the shadows, one that must lead to Arthur's room. She knows this isn’t an invitation, Arthur would never be so improper, but heat flashes through her nonetheless, like lightning cutting the sky.

That he said those words at all - need, night - that he’s conjured images of his bedroom, of himself, dressed loosely in nightclothes - that can't have been an accident. Mithian smiles.

There’s a crash on the stairwell. Arthur sighs. “Come down, Merlin, I knew you were there.”

Mithian shakes her head, pressing fingertips to Arthur’s wrist. She steps inside the passageway, lightly drawing Arthur along with her, stopping when she feels Merlin on the stairs in front of her, his breathing harsh and curious in the dark.

She wonders who might find it easier to share, Merlin or Arthur. She wonders what the hard lines of Merlin might feel like, pressed along her front. About the solid weight of Arthur at her back, about his hands, what they might feel like in places other than her arm.

Mithian’s voice is steady when she asks, “Would either of you like to close the door behind us?”

* * *

**50.**

Warnings: prostitution, unprotected sex

“Are you free tonight?”

Nimueh analyzes the voice: female, posh, not her typical caller. “Sweetie, you do realize I’m the girl and not the receptionist, right? I’ve got a great guy on speed dial--”

“Your ad says you’ll do either. Please, I--this was stupid.”

Normally she wouldn’t bother, she’d wait for the next john to call, but there’s something in this woman’s voice ... “Calm down, just tell me where to go. You can even tell me what to wear if you want a special treat.”

For a second, she thinks she’s lost the customer, but then there’s a shaky inhale. “Wear whatever, I don’t care. I’m at Camelot Hotel, room 318.”

“I’ll be there. Half an hour, you know the going rate.”

*

The receptionist at the hotel nods when Nimueh asks to be let up to room 318. “She said she had a friend coming. Molly Flanders, right?”

“That’s me.” She has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. Apparently the client knows her literary whores. “You need ID?”

“No, you’re fine.” Nimueh gives her a nod and heads for the elevator.

It takes a minute to get an answer when she knocks on the door, and she’s half-afraid she wasted a trip across London for a no-show before it opens, revealing a flushed blonde too gorgeous to need a hooker wrapped in an ivory satin robe. Nimueh smiles. “May I come in?”

The woman steps aside; Nimueh walks in and locks the door behind her.

The bed is rumpled, the TV is muted on uninspired porn, and with any other customer Nimueh would tease, but here she just flips off the TV and takes off her jacket. If she pushes too hard, she’ll get kicked out. “What should I call you? I’m Nim.”

“It said in the advert. I’m … it doesn’t matter.” So it doesn’t. Nimueh shimmies her skirt to the floor so she’s left in underwear and heels, an impressive show if she says so herself. The woman is hugging herself, eyes on the floor.

Nimeuh can’t let that stand. She wanders over and winds her arms around the woman’s neck to breathe in her ear. “We can do whatever you want. I’m yours tonight.”

She takes a shuddering breath, and then she relaxes into Nimueh’s hold. “Okay.”

“Good. What do you want me to do?” She lowers her voice to a purr. “I could eat you out. Or I can use my fingers, or a vibrator ...”

“Can I--” She stops, cheeks crimson, when Nimueh glances at her.

“You can do anything--within reason.”

“Can I use my mouth?” Nimueh pulls back, more surprised than she should be. “I want to get you off, I want you to teach me how to make it good. Is that okay?”

“Of course.” Nimueh climbs on the bed, leading her.

“Could you sit at the edge of the bed?” She raises her eyebrows but obeys, and the woman sinks to her knees between Nimueh’s legs. “Tell me when it’s good,” she says, voice breaking. “Make me make it good, okay?”

If anything, Nimueh’d expected tender foreplay, touches and kisses and maybe some fingering at the end. She hadn’t expected the woman to go for her cunt like she’s starving for it, mouthing at her through the red lace, fingers clutching Nimueh’s thighs, but it’s what she gets. It’s messy and desperate and Nimueh has to force her head away to slide her pants off, and then there’s a tongue against her clit and the woman is fucking _whimpering_ , and it’s all Nimueh can do to wind her fingers in her pretty blonde hair and say “Fuck, that’s it, good, sweetheart, you’re so good.”

The woman gets her off once, twice, keeps pressing sloppy kisses to her cunt and says “Tell me I’m--” and that’s when Nimueh pulls her onto the bed, holds her close and says “You’re a good girl, you’re _my_ good girl” and isn’t surprised when she breaks down sobbing.

*

“I’m Ygraine, and I’m getting married next week,” says the woman after Nimueh soothes her with kisses and gets her off and wraps around her. “I had to do this once, I have to _know_ what I’m giving up.”

That should be Nimueh’s cue to get her money and go, but she settles into Ygraine instead, kissing the back of her neck. “And now you know.”

“Yes,” says Ygraine, catch in her voice. “Now I do.”

* * *

**51.**

Long ago, when the priestesses still ruled the Isle, playing the wife in the sacred wedding at Beltane was the greatest of honors for a young initiate. They had their pick of Kings and Catha, warriors and artists all vying for the chance to pledge themselves bodily to the gods of the Old Religion.

That changed with Uther Pendragon.

Nimueh herself had bedded the man on Beltane the year he claimed Camelot, and he betrayed them all by hunting down them down, and making it too dangerous to hold rituals in any of the sacred places.

This year Morgause would be of age, and Nimueh had decided she would conduct the ceremony herself. If the gods were displeased, well, they could burn along with their followers for all she cared. If they were still there to hear mortals, if they still wanted their rituals to be absolutes, then they should have struck down Uther years ago.

She dressed Morgause in a white shift she stole from a noblewoman and led her to a grove the Druid’s claimed as theirs long ago. As far as she was concerned, the Druids had lost all claim to their spaces when they rolled over and let themselves be slaughtered. The fools could keep their peace, waiting for the savior they dreamed of, and if they wouldn’t make use of their grove, she would. Their trees could bear witness to _real_ magic.

Nimueh spread her cloak on the grass, placing the bag with the necessary implements on the ground beside it, then bade Morgause to lay down. Morgause was no virgin. No woman ready to be a high priestess could be, since they strove to excel at all forms of power, and Morgause had always been an apt pupil, skilled with sword and word alike. She had a destiny that burned like fire. Nimueh would give her this last thing, and then Morgause would be left to rule the Blood Guard, and Nimueh could have her revenge.

Morgause hitched up her shift, bracing her feet on the ground with her knees up. Under normal circumstances the bride would ride the groom, but that position wouldn’t work with what Nimueh had planned. She opened the bag and pulled out the tools to transform herself into Morgause’s husband: antlers to represent the horned god, which she placed on her head, and a pot of grease that she applied liberally to her hands.

She began slowly, just one, then two fingers, until Morgause’s pants became a plea for more. Nimueh slid in a third finger, spreading and twisting them, never actually increasing her pace or the pressure, holding her thumb firmly on Morgause’s clit.

Once, there would have been chanting and prayers to accompany the act; there should have been bonfires. But too many of their kind had already burned, and there was no one left for songs, just Nimueh’s cold determination and Morgause’s keening as she added another finger.

She increased her speed, working Morgause harder, opening her up until Morgause was slick and breathless from it. When she judged the time was right, Nimueh pulled her hand free, drawing from Morgause a strangled wail of complaint. But she wouldn’t have to wait long: applying more of the grease to her hand, Nimueh returned to the task with her whole hand this time, thumb and fingers together to stretch Morgause wider. Folding her hand as tightly as she could, she got in past her knuckles at last.

Morgause shouted and chanted nonsense in the tongue of the Old Religion as Nimueh slowly drew her fingers into a fist. She pumped her arm once, and that was all it took to bring Morgause over, the girl shaking apart around her wrist.

Nimueh pulled her hand free, tossed the antlers to the ground and stood. She stared down at Morgause who was still gasping for air.

“You’ve learned everything I can teach you Morgause,” Nimueh said, as she walked into the forest alone.

* * *

**52.**

Elena wasn't one to set store by gossip or rumors. She knew the things people said about Vivian — generally some variation of "bitch" or "slut", depending on who you asked — but Elena thought she was perfect. Perfect body, perfect golden hair that fell in perfect shining waves, immaculate beauty, and poise that Elena could only dream of. She was gorgeous and popular and elegant, everything that Elena _wasn't_ , with her flyaway hair and complete lack of fashion sense. When Elena agreed to tutor her in math, she figured maybe it'd be a mutually beneficial arrangement, and she'd pick up a bit of Vivian's grace by osmosis.

She didn't quite expect her weekly tutoring sessions to turn into weekly make-out-and-more sessions, but considering Vivian currently had her pinned in the middle of her pink silk sheets and was insistently worming her way up under Elena's (old, threadbare, hopelessly stained) t-shirt, Elena wasn't much inclined to complain.

Vivian sat up, straddling Elena's hips. The weight of her made nerves and excitement skitter through Elena's stomach. "Take that _off_." Vivian scowled as though the shirt's existence were a personal affront.

Elena wriggled out of it and tossed it aside. When Vivian embraced her, fingers tracing around her ribs to unhook her bra, Elena grabbed her and roll her onto her back.

Vivian started to frown. Elena pushed her cute little blouse up and mouthed at a nipple, and Vivian's frown melted away. "Oh, yes," she purred, dragging her fingers through Elena's hair, mussing it up even worse than it usually was. Elena nearly drew away, ashamed of its unruliness, but Vivian said, "You can keep doing that," and she couldn't have stopped if the house were on fire.

Vivian's nipples were hard and round and pink, as perfect as the rest of her. Elena wanted to kiss her _everywhere_ , to lap and suck and stroke every inch of skin until she knew how much Elena adored her.

Vivian hummed a contented note, her eyes closed and her expression blissful as Elena kissed down her stomach, past her navel. She pushed Vivian's clingy skirt up, bunched and wrinkled about her waist. The sight of her like that, rumpled and disheveled when she never had a hair out of place, made Elena grin fiercely.It was a thrill to know that she was the cause, that it was because of her that Vivian allowed herself to be taken apart like that.

Elena nudged Vivian's knees apart until there was room for her to lie between them. She kissed the inside of Vivian's thighs, where the skin is soft as velvet, then up to where her panties were soaked through with the evidence of her desire.

Vivian moaned happily when Elena lapped at her through them. Elena pulled the thin fabric aside and dragged her tongue over Vivian's flesh until she found her clit. Vivian's cry, high and sharp and punctuated with the scrape of her nails over Elena's scalp, made Elena flush hot with pleasure, but it also made her draw back reluctantly.

Vivian pulled at her hair in sharp command, so Elena slid two fingers into her to make up for it. "Viv," she whispered. "Your father…" 

Vivian huffed. "My father is so busy chasing off any potential boyfriends that he doesn't even think to worry about girlfriends."

Elena hid her smile against Vivian's thigh. "Is that what I am?"

"Don't be coy, Elena. It doesn't suit you."

Elena crooked her fingers until she found the place that made Vivian arch off the bed with a breathless moan. The muscles in her legs shuddered deliciously beneath Elena's kiss.

"Elena," Vivian gasped, twisting her fingers into Elena's hair. "Don't tease."

Elena licked the skin beneath her lips, scraped her teeth over it until the perfect porcelain had flushed pink. Vivian writhed, grunting sharp, hungry noises. When she was trembling, shivering all over, her toes curled and hands clenched in her sheets, dragging them into disarray, she threw her head back onto her lacy pillow and moaned, "God, _please!_ "

Elena stilled and raised her head, staring up the slender length of Vivian's body at her. She'd never heard Vivian ask for anything in the entire time she'd known her, had certainly never heard her beg. Her face was flushed, eyes wild, her lips pink and swollen from biting at them. She'd never looked less composed, or more beautiful.

Elena smiled, sank back between her legs, and gave her everything she wanted.

* * *

**53.**

 

Warnings: Infidelity 

Freya’s back was against the wall and her legs where wrapped around Will’s waist. Her thighs were wet around him and she giggled against his throat as they swayed. Gripping his cock he slid back into her. She moaned biting down lightly against his skin to try to muffle the sound. They were fucking in a closet, his dress pants were around his ankles and her skirt hiked over her thighs. 

People were talking outside the door, the party was in full swing and the voices grew louder as whoever it was moved closer.

“Shit,” his voice was a pant as he slammed her against the wall. Her arms wrapped tighter around his neck to hold on.

“Don’t stop.” She whispered in his ear, her nails digging into his back pulling him closer. He thrust into her hard let loose a groan. His head rested against her shoulder as his hips stuttered. “Did you…?”

“Sorry,” he laughed softly his hang fumbling between them as he slid off the condom, tying it quickly and throwing it in the corner.

Before she could moan in frustration he was setting her gently on her feet and sliding down to his knees. His hands spread her and she moaned, tossing her head back as he buried his head between her thighs. His hand slide up and his thumb rubbed against her clit as he buried his tongue inside her. He was fast, knowing her body well by now. It wasn’t long till she was shaking under him and coming apart, biting her arm to stop the scream that wanted to work its way from her throat.

She took in a deep breath as he moved back and looked down at his grinning face. His chin glistened, wet with her and he licked his lips lewdly. “We should get back before someone finds us.” she told him regretfully, softening it with a smile.

“Right,” he stood pulling up his pants and buckling them. She tried to smooth down her dress, slipping into the panties she had thrown in the corner when they had come in here. As she smoothed her hair down she felt Will’s hands on her back, zipping up her dress. He pressed a gentle kiss to her shoulder and she turned to him, unable to resist stealing one last kiss of her own. 

“You go first.” he murmured softly. She slipped past him and out the door, relieved that whoever had been near there earlier had gone. She needed to find a bathroom to finish cleaning herself up. She wiped the sweat off her body with a napkin, sprayed perfume on her skin, and applied a fresh layer of lipstick. Leaving the bathroom an arm wrapped around her waist and a kiss was pressed to her neck.

“I’d wondered where you’d gotten off to.” Merlin grinned at her, his skin flush with alcohol and his eyes tender as he looked at her. “Have you seen Will?” His smile was guileless and her stomach twisted.

“I’m sure he’s around here somewhere.” and she kissed him back, trying to lose herself in the way he felt pressed up against her. Trying to pretend the guilt wasn’t burning through her with his every touch and smile.

“Found him.” Arthur walked up, his arm wrapped around Will’s shoulders and Freya’s eyes slid to his. His lips still looked swollen and she wondered if she looked the same. If they could see the matching flush to her skin and betrayal in her eyes. Was Arthur’s grip on Will too tight? Was there accusation in his eyes? 

“Fantastic.” Merlin beamed turning to her “Arthur wants to meet some of his mates down at the pub and I thought we could join them?”

“Sounds greet.” she leaned into Merlin’s side and tried to focus on the way he looked at her, like she was the most beautiful and incredible thing he’d ever found. She felt Will come to stand beside her and she didn’t dare look at him. That didn’t stop her heart from racing and her body from wanting.

* * *

**54.**

“Dude, did you seriously just get a stiffy from watching the profs fuck?” Gwaine leers at Leon in the half light falling through the crack where the closet door isn't entirely closed. Outside, Mr. Pendragon, the headmaster, and Mr. Emrys, the biology teacher, are whispering sweet nothings and exchanging soft, post-coital kisses.

Leon flushes, looking anywhere but at Gwaine.

“Well at least we win the bet. Percy owes us fifty pounds,” Gwaine murmurs in his ear, the soft tickle of his warm breath making it even more unbearable.

“I don't think they're going to leave for a while, d'you?”

“Not really. It's the headmaster's office and biology doesn't start for another hour,” Leon whispers back. He's starting to think this bet was a terrible idea.

“You going to take care of that?” Gwaine asks not-so-subtly eying his trousers.

“No!”

“Fine,” Gwaine sighs, dropping to his knees, “make me do all the work why doncha?”

Leon tries desperately to stop Gwaine's wandering hands. But unless he wants to make a lot of noise and get them both discovered, there isn't a whole lot he can do. Gwaine gets his trousers open and mouths wetly across the line of his prick through his pants. Leon bites down on his lip hard, hands slipping helplessly against the wall behind him as he tries to find something to hang onto. His head is spinning already and his cock betrays him by twitching under Gwaine's mouth.

“I think it likes me,” Gwaine whispers.

“No it doesn't. It's not a dog,” Leon hisses back.

Gwaine drags his pants down to mid-thigh and slides his mouth over Leon's cockhead, and _jesus fuck_ his mouth is wet and hot and so, so wonderful. He takes more of Leon into his mouth, sliding forward bit by bit, and just doesn't _stop._

By the time he reaches the base, Leon's eyes have rolled back into his head and if it weren't for Gwaine's hands copping a feel of his arse, he probably wouldn't be standing anymore.

“Where the fuck did you learn this?” Leon whispers breathlessly. Gwaine makes a strange humming sound in response and swallows around him, muscles of his throat contracting and shifting in a way that would have Leon screaming if he hadn't stuffed his fist into his mouth and bitten down hard.

The worse part is that Gwaine actually seems like he's enjoying it, maybe even like he's been gagging for it all along. Gwaine is notorious, it's true, experiencing it first hand is something else.

“If you keep that up, I'm going to-” Leon says a little louder than he probably should, considering the headmaster and apparently his boyfriend are on the other side of the door.

Gwaine pulls back, presumably because he can't resist talking for more than five minutes at a time and eyes the spit-slick length of Leon's prick with an eager look that shouldn't be hot and totally is.

“Good. I'm going to make you come fast and hard now,” his eyes slide up Leon's body slowly, expression gone dark and hungry and oh so serious, “and later I'll fuck you nice and slow. Would you like that?”

Leon shudders.

“ _Yes._ ”

Leon takes him in his mouth again and digs his fingers into Leon's arse. He tries to stifle a gasp and hopes that there'll be bruises there tomorrow the shape of Gwaine's devious fingers.

He twists his fingers into Gwaine lush hair and pulls, reveling in the groan it pulls from him and the way the sound feels around his cock. He does it again and manages to look down this time to see as well as feel.

It almost knocks him off his feet all over again when he looks past the place where Gwaine's red lips are stretched wide around him and sees that Gwaine is fisting himself furiously.

Gwaine has started making this little hitching sounds every time he tries to breathe between waves of sucking Leon's dick and fuck if that isn't hot too. He's struggling for air but is so desperate to keep sucking Leon's cock that he refuses to just pull back and take a breath.

“Fuck,” Leon hisses as his hips twitch forward of their own accord. Gwaine the flutter of muscle as Gwaine gags is what pushes Leon over the edge. His orgasm takes him by surprise, jolting through his body like a physical shock as he comes down Gwaine's throat.

“Fuck,” he says again, for good measure as he slides bonelessly down the wall. He watches Gwaine lick the last of his come from his lips and wipe his sticky hand on his trousers.

“How long until round two?” 

Gwaine grins at him.

* * *

**55.**

It was a strange mixture of relief and incredulity that Morris felt when Merlin was made Arthur’s servant. They weren’t particularly close – not at all, actually, what with the whole showing off to his friends aspect of Arthur’s colourful personality. His second meeting with Merlin was after he had saved Arthur’s life, and he had gladly quickly shown Merlin the ropes, not sure whether to warn him about how horrible Arthur could be when he was angry or not. Judging from their _first_ meeting, however, Merlin could hold his own. Just about.

Now, however? Merlin was holding his own extremely well. And then some.

Morris had turned round the corner and realised he’d been stood still for some time, frozen in shock and fear of finding the prince on his knees, pinning Merlin to the wall with his hands on his hips and sucking Merlin’s cock with... well, practised ease. He darted back around the corner again, looking to see if anyone else had seen, or seen _him_ , but there was no one. 

A muffled groan drew his attention back to them, and he peeked around the corner to see Merlin knocking his head back against the wall, mouth hanging open as his hips bucked against Arthur’s hands. The only sign of disapproval from the prince was his fingers turning white as he shoved Merlin’s hips back. His eyes were still serenely shut and... Never had Morris imagined he would ever see Prince Arthur’s lips around another man’s cock, and he still felt like he should be checking to see if he was dreaming. 

“ _Arthur_!” Merlin gasped. “Fuck.”

His hands tightened in Arthur’s hair, and Morris realized with a start that he was palming his cock through his own breeches, only halfway there but rapidly getting harder and he wasn’t sure if he was more confused at his own reaction or that he had felt surprised to see this. He remembered the prince’s smile as he’d ordered the guards to throw Merlin in the dungeons when the idiot had actually swung for Arthur. It looked similar to how Arthur looked when he faced a particularly challenging opponent in a tournament, or trying to hunt down game in the forest. Speculative.

Arthur wrenched Merlin’s breeches lower, and Morris watched as he slid his hand from Merlin’s hip to _behind_ and- Was he? He was, judging from the way Merlin’s eyes opened wide and he seemed to grind back. Merlin hummed, voice strained, trying to keep quiet, and Arthur slowed the bobbing of his head right down, lingering at the tip of Merlin’s cock as he seemed to be methodically taking Merlin apart. 

“Gods. Arthur. Come on,” Merlin said, hand moving to the back of Arthur’s neck. Then, so quietly Morris nearly didn’t hear it, “More.”

Somehow, Arthur’s reddened lips formed a smirk around the base of Merlin’s cock, and Morris saw him shift his hand until Merlin sighed, his legs parting as far as his breeches would let him. Then his legs were tensing as Arthur _sucked_ , his cheeks hollowing as Merlin clenched his hands on Arthur’s shoulders and he bit his lip. There was a moment when they were all so silent all Morris could here was his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, but then Merlin opened his eyes and gazed down at Arthur.

“We should- ah... go,” Merlin said as his cock slid from Arthur’s mouth.

Morris took that as his queue to get out of there before anyone noticed and he was caught... not quite with his pants down, unlike some. He’d never be able to look the prince in the eye again. He’d have to get one of the other servants to attend the prince when Merlin wasn’t available. The new servant, George, would probably do.

* * *

**56.**

Percival rushes into the room straight past Gwaine who is crouching on the floor and Gaius on the bed to Elyan. He grabs Elyan by the hand and looks deep into his eyes, “You alright?”

“I’ve been locked up with Gwaine for a week.” Elyan says but nods that he is alright. 

They both check on Gaius and prepare to leave the cell.

Elyan pulls Percival to the side as they leave, “You and me are having a chat later,” He says with a wink.

~~~

When all the loose ends have been sorted Elyan slips into Percival’s room later that night after knocking quickly. Percival is sitting on his bed just removing his chainmail. When he looks up and starts to see Elyan standing at the door. Elyan looks at him and smiles as he clicks the lock over. 

“I saw what you did in the cells earlier,” Elyan says in a conversational tone. 

“What I did?” Percival asks an innocent look on his face.

“Rushed straight past everyone, to me,” Elyan says as he starts padding across the room.

Percival looks slightly guilty, “Umm”

“I’m not saying anything bad, quite the contrary actually,” Elyan pulls his shirt over his head and removes it as he comes to stand before Percival, “It was really hot.”

Percival blushes, he looks like he really doesn’t know where to look and finally settles on looking Elyan straight in the eye. 

“I guess this just means if you want to?” Elyan says as he kicks out of his breeches and continues to stand before Percival. 

Percival takes a moment. He looks Elyan over from head to toe and quickly grabs him and pulls him into his arms, “You are incorrigible, totally incorrigible.” 

“And you love it,” Elyan pulls Percival’s mouth to his and licks his way into a kiss, flicking his tongue against Percival’s lips smiling the whole time. 

Percival groans at the feel of all of Elyan’s naked flesh again his clothed body. He runs his hand down Elyan’s sides eliciting a full body shiver from the other man.

“You need less clothes. Now,” Elyan says yanking Percival’s shirt out of his breeches as he gives a startled shout. Elyan makes short work of Percival’s breeches and they both fall naked onto Percival’s bed. 

Elyan stretched out on top of Percival’s body rubbing his chest against Percival’s and reaching up for another kiss. 

Percival obliged and slide his hands around Elyan’s waist and down to palm his ass. “Mm, nice,” he mumbles into Elyan’s lips.

“What you’re grabbing or what you’re kissing?” Elyan says with a cheeky smile. 

Percival pulls back and says, “Both,” with a straight face.

Elyan laughs and starts rutting against Percival’s hip. The pre-come leaking from his cock creating a warm slick trail.

Heat pools in Percival’s stomach he licks his palm and grabs both their dicks in his large hands. Elyan groans at the contact and Percival captures his lips in another kiss and he starts to rub them together. 

“You’re hands, you’re fucking hands,” Elyan pants as he stares mesmerized by the motion of Percival’s hands on both their dicks. 

Percival grins and speeds up a bit tangling his fingers over both their cocks. Heat flushing his body as he nears his climax. Elyan captures Percival’s nipple between his thumb and forefinger squeezing it hard. Percival falls over the edge with this and comes in long, white spurts all over his cock and Elyan. 

Elyan grins and grabs his own cock as Percival lies back with a blissed out smile on his face, “I’m going to come all over that beautiful cock. Watch me,” Elyan growls as he stripes his own cock hard and fast till he comes all over Percival’s spent dick. 

Elyan collapses beside Percival on the bed, turning on his side and sliding a leg across Percival’s thighs.

Percival’s grabs one of Elyan’s hands turn the palm up and kisses it, “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.”

Elyan places his palm on Percival’s chest and his head on his shoulder, “Me too, me too.”

* * *

**57.**

Warnings: semi public sex, mild voyeurism 

Geoffrey was a librarian. Well not just a librarian. He was the castle record keeper too. But first and foremost he was a librarian. He was a librarian for one reason and one reason only. He liked books. Big books and small books, long books and short books, books with pictures, books with ribbons and tassels, books that smelled like ink and dust. Geoffrey cared for his books and liked to think that they cared in return - were they in any way sentient of course. 

It was a relatively normal night, much like any other night really, that found Geoffrey pacing the rows of his library, running an old wizened hand over the rough spines, occasionally picking up and placing a tome here or there. He had just turned the corner into the one section Uther did not know about - it was, you could say, a bit of a _magical_ place - when he heard it. A bitten off cry followed by a pained groan. 

Geoffrey's eyes widened. Surely no one was hurt in his library. He quickly took a step forward to peer around a tall bookcase. The sight that met him was not in fact the gory scene of pain and suffering he had expected. Rather it was the sight of the Crown Prince tipping his manservant over a reading desk. 

Now, being on in years and having his own fair shake of flings, Geoffrey the librarian found it odd that he had to fight down a flush at that particular moment. Though it was one thing that most of the castle servants and indeed some of the nobles were aware that the prince and his manservant were _involved_ , it was quite another thing to witness it firsthand.

To see the way they moved together, the prince thrusting in and out of his manservant, the animalistic grunts and pants that came forth, but also the look in their eyes. Even from his hidden spot behind the bookcase Geoffrey could see the caring and affection between the two. 

Just then the manservant - what was his name, Mervin, Marlin, something - let out a long, drawn out moan and panted the prince's name. Geoffrey watched as Arthur's thrusts became erratic. Geoffrey recognised the signs of pending release when he saw them. 

Decidin on a gracious exit, geoffrey slowly backed away from the bookcase and meandered his way back to his desk. A few rows over he heard the unmistakable cry of both boys - ahem, young men - spilling their seed. With a warm feeling in his gut and a light flush over his cheeks, the librarian continued on his way to his desk. He tried not to make a sound, lest he alert them to his presence. No reason to embarrass them. Geoffrey could keep a secret. He just hoped none of his precious books were defiled in the process of their lovemaking. 

\--

One week later Geoffrey was sitting at his desk perusing over one of his many books, taking dare not to bend pages or stretch the spine. He heard some shuffling and looked up to see the prince's manservant lopping toward him with a big smile on his face. Geoffrey peered over his reading spectacles. 

"Can I help you?"

"Gaius needs me to get a book for him. Something on plants and healing?"

"Ah yes. You'll find many references on medicinal uses of various plants in the botany section. Second row to your left."

The manservant's grin got wider. "Great. Thanks."

The boy started off for the aforementioned section. Geoffrey followed him with his eyed. Just when he was about to turn the corner Geoffrey gave him a word of advice. 

"Make sure you don't pass it up and end up in the back corner. The books there should hold little use to you. Not to mention it was quite... Dirty the last I checked."

A fierce blush crawled up the boy's neck and face. He sputtered and nodded and them dashed off to find his botany text. Geoffrey smirked after him.

* * *

**58.**

A small candle in her hand, all the mead and wine locked away should anyone get thirsty while she slept, Mary took one last look around, pleased with the way everything looked, all clean and tidy for tomorrow, when a knock startled her. 

She knew her candlelight would be visible through the cracks in the door, and Mary was no lady of the court, so she grabbed a broom and hollered, "The tavern is closed! Come back tomorrow!"

A moment passed.

"I mean no harm. I wish to make reparations for a brawl that happened here in the fall." A deep voice replied.

Mary laughed, making her way to the door, "A brawl? 'fraid you'll have to be more specific."

"I'm afraid I can't, it has been too long. I just want to pay you back and be on my way. If it's too much trouble, I'll leave the coins here and you can take your chances leaving them outside." Mary could practically feel his smirk through the door.

She hesitated. The man was insistent, which often spelled trouble, but he seemed sincere enough, and Mary just wanted him gone so she could go to sleep. She opened the door. 

His face was covered by a hood, which fell further as he bowed before her. Mary leaned on the broom and blocked his entrance, waiting, tired. 

"I haven’t got all night."

"My apologies," the stranger said and pulled his hood off, revealing a face Mary could almost recall, niggling at the edges of her memory. His hair was blonde, falling into his eyes, face covered in day-old stubble, a strong jawline highlighted his smile, brilliant even in the dim light of her candle. 

"It’s you!" Mary finally remembered. "You have _some_ nerve showin' up here now. The time it took for me to fix this place up after you lot! And not a single one offered to help. Some men you are." The hand on the broom itched to smack the stranger, and Mary was ready to continue ranting, when the stranger placed a finger against her lips.

It shocked her more than anything else, but she stopped talking. He stepped into her space, making her step back into the tavern, before closing the door behind him, finger not leaving her lips for a moment.

Though it was his companion then that caught Mary's eye, her tastes more toward lean, wiry men, having this built stranger looming over her wasn't unwelcome. 

"As I said, I merely want to make amends." The stranger placed a jangly satchel on the table next to them and Mary's heart fell. _Of course._

But as she exhaled against his finger, ready to speak her mind, she saw him shudder, stepping even closer into Mary's space, their bodies practically flush together. Mary felt heat travel through her, a familiar dampness spreading between her thighs. She opened her mouth, taking the stranger’s finger inside, closing her eyes, and sucking.

He moaned out, but pulled his finger from her mouth, holding her face in his hands as he kissed her without finesse. The broom fell to the floor and Mary only barely put the candle on the table before the stranger was pushing her against it.

She scrambled backwards, resting on her elbows, watching as he kissed down her chest and stomach. He hiked up her skirts and buried his face in the wet heat, nosing through the folds. 

Mary clung to her skirts while the stranger lapped at her sex, making her moan; getting wetter and wetter. The licking and sucking sounds echoed through the empty tavern obscenely. His hands held her thighs open, digging bruises into the flesh, probably, but as she rocked herself against the stranger's face, chasing her release, getting closer, Mary didn't care. She only wanted his tongue to keep lapping at the hard nub, to never stop, while her head swam in a needy haze. 

When she finally came, she held his head in place with her thighs, riding out the pleasure. She felt boneless, no strength to pick herself up, or speak.

He fixed up her skirts, smoothing them down, kissing her thighs. She reached for him and he kissed her hand. Mary had no energy to chase him, but began to speak when he leaned over her and pressed his glistening lips to hers chastely.

"Thank you." he said, bowing again before pulling his hood back up and leaving the way he came. And Mary only then realised that he hadn’t.

* * *

**59.**

"You really shouldn't be going yet," Nimueh says as she enters Edwin's room.

Edwin's sitting on a chair next to the table, packing away his medical equipment carefully. He runs a loving hand over the small wooden box with his most prized possessions, the ones he intends to use against Uther Pendragon.

"I don't want to listen to this again," Edwin says. She crosses the room and stands next to the table. Her hand rest along the edge, but she's respectful enough she doesn't touch anything. Her fingers twitch as if they want to, though.

"You should wait before going to Camelot," she advises – warns – yet again. "There's more there than we yet know." 

"I'm ready," Edwin says. He's been patient for what feels like forever, but now is the time to act. 

"I wish I could convince you otherwise," Nimueh says. She smiles coyly. "Perhaps I can give you incentive?"

She approaches his chair. Her movements are smooth and practiced; the way she hikes up her skirt so it settles easily around her hips as she straddles his legs, her right arm slithering over his shoulder so she can squeeze the back of his neck, her left hand settling lightly on his lower stomach.

Edwin's fully dressed in breeches and a long-sleeved tunic. The heavy robe he wears in public hangs on a peg on the back of the door. He misses its comfort, the way it covers him and keeps him from prying, curious eyes.

Nimueh's seen all of him before. She knows how he doesn't like to be gawked at, or even touched much over his scars. She easily avoids doing so, but her hand slips down further, fingers brushing against his skin as they slide into his breeches. 

Edwin doesn't get this a lot – has barely in the past, no woman has wanted him – so he's already hard, just from feeling her heat through his clothes. He slips his hands under her skirts, fingers seeking the heat there. He rubs slowly over silky warm skin, dipping a little inside.

She grins, sharp and beautiful, as she pulls his cock out. "You're always so ready for me."

"As are you." He drags fingernails down her thighs, making her groan, then reaches up to tug at the neckline of her flimsy gown, revealing her breasts. He kisses the space between them, then takes a nipple between his lips, sucking hard. She holds the back of his head and arches into it, breath heavier now.

"You're gorgeous," he mouths against soft skin, tongue flicking.

"And dangerous," she says, inching forward and lifting herself up. She slides down onto his cock, already so wet and ready for him. 

"Mustn't forget that," he agrees, rolling his hips up.

Nimueh gasps and jerks forward, the movement so sudden the chair tips back. He's caught off guard, tries to right them, but then there's a flash of gold in her eyes, quick and alert. The chair stops, easily balancing on two legs. Glancing down, he sees her feet are planted firmly on the floor.

She's got leverage, and she's in control. Just as she likes it, and he's not going to argue, not when she's so willing. He can only tilt his head back, moaning, as she starts to ride him hard. It's a fast pace she sets, bouncing up and down on his cock. He palms her breasts and tweaks her nipples, rolling them between his fingers. She moans filthily, and her hips begin to move faster.

He reaches down again, fishing under her skits. He finds her nub of pleasure, rubs firm circles over it. She begins to go tense and shudder, and he can tell by her panting breath she's almost there. 

She comes hard around his cock, body trembling. Ceasing her movements as she rides out her climax, he grabs her hips and holds her in place, thrusting up into her. Pressing his face in the crook of her neck, biting down, he comes in her with a deep grunt.

After she releases the magic holding back the chair, she easily slides off him and straightens herself up. 

"I'm sorry," Edwin says as he tucks his soft cock back into his breeches, "but that wasn't enough incentive. I have to go."

"I know," she says, and doesn't sound sorry. She pats his smooth cheek. "Goodbye, Edwin."

"Goodbye, Nimueh."

He tries to ignore how final that sounds, and continues to prepare for his journey to Camelot.

* * *

**60.**

“Are you still with me, Mordred?”

Mordred shuddered. Aithusa, the man he’d picked up at the bar after Merlin had swanned off to dance with his boyfriend, was looking down at him with a face of gentle amusement. There had been something about Aithusa, with his almost white blond hair and pale blue eyes – or were they gold? – that had pulled at something deep in Mordred’s chest.

He’d gone home with the man without a thought.

Now, he still wasn’t questioning his decision, even handcuffed naked to the brass headboard and weighted down by Aithusa’s strong thighs over his. It felt right, somehow.

Aithusa smiled as their eyes met, an enigmatic smile that made Mordred’s normally reserved composure melt a bit. “Hey, there you are.” He dropped down and gave Mordred a little peck, teasing just enough that Mordred lifted his shoulders off the bed in an effort to follow Aithusa’s lips away.

Aithusa pushed him back down. “Patience, Mordred. Soon enough.”

“But…”

"Shh.” Aithusa placed one of his long, pale fingers over Mordred’s kiss swollen lips. “Relax.”

With the word came a flow of golden energy, and Mordred felt every muscle in his body rush to obey the command.

“Better?” Aithusa asked. Mordred nodded. “Good. Now we can start.”

 _Start?_ Mordred wanted to ask, but Aithusa was kissing him again. And that was fine, that was more than fine, the two of them just laying there and kissing, skin on skin…

“Oh!” Mordred’s eyes flew open as he felt something push into him and fill him up, suddenly. His eyes flew downward, but Aithusa hadn’t moved at all. “What is… what… I don’t… _oooh_ …” Mordred’s head fell back against the pillow without his permission at the feeling of the warm, shimmering heat pressed up inside him.

Aithusa chuckled. “It’s magic, Mordred. Don’t you recognize it?”

Mordred shook his head, then nodded, then shook it again. The sensation was too confusing, just sitting there throbbing in him while Aithusa laid on him, their cocks brushing together but not touching in any real way. “No? Well, that’s too bad, I was hoping you could help. Maybe next time.”

“You’re crazy,” Mordred breathed, but in a reverent sort of way as the magic inside of him started to pulse and vibrate, making his hips jerk up into Aithusa’s welcoming weight.

Aithusa laughed. “I’ve been called a lot worse.” And with no further ado he reached down and slipped two fingers into Mordred’s heat, making the magic swell and writhe.

Mordred gasped for breath, tugging at the handcuffs that held him in any attempt to ground himself in reality. It wasn’t working – the harder Aithusa pushed, the less coherent Mordred’s thoughts became, until it was just a litany of _more, more, God, MORE_ , chanted over and over in the hope that Aithusa might somehow understand, because Mordred sure as hell wasn’t going to be able to speak any time soon.

“It’s okay,” Aithusa said, speeding up his achingly deep thrusts with his fingers as the magic quickened its pace, stretching Mordred to his limits. He groaned out loud at the dual sensations warring within him, each racing to push him over the edge of climax. “I know what you need, Mordred. Just trust me, I’ve got you.”

Then the magic burst, racing like fire through Mordred’s veins until he was filled with nothing but boiling pleasure, and his own magic burst free from confinement with a massive explosion of white light.

* * *

**61.**

Warnings: BDSM, dub-con, non-con (sorta? is that possible?), body modification, bondage

A Bargain Struck

 

The snap of a whip made Morgause jerk, a smirk working its way onto her face. Adrenaline sang through her as the air rang with the noise, finally dying as it hit the heavy wooden doors to the cavernous room. The man below her shuddered for another reason as the blow landed on his back, already a swath of stinging red marks. She hit his shoulder blade with her heavy boot when she realized he’d stopped moving. It was easy, fun even as her legs were spread, knees draped over the arms of the man’s own throne, and she only had to move just so to land a throbbing blow to his back.

“I didn’t give you permission to stop, Cenred.”

The king looked up from between her legs, mouth red, swollen, and wet. She smirked at him, the look twisting her face so it was caught between fondness and disgust. “Get back to it, little king, or I may go back on our bargain.”

Cenred only glared at her. It was the way she liked her pets, obedient but not yet broken. The broken ones were no fun. She shoved his head back down and he nearly lost his balance, tilting dangerously to the side though he spread his arms and legs what he could to stabilize himself. It didn’t help much with ankles and wrists bound together as they were and his bare knees scraping the floor but he’d learned by now that if he fell she wouldn’t help him back up and he would be punished further for it.

His corrections made him sway forward and she bit back a groan as his mouth crashed into her wet curls. She growled at him when he made no further move and hit him again with her boot so a solid sound came from the impact. “I warn you, Cenred-”

His tongue swept over her and she moaned softly instead, bringing her free hand to grip his hair. She laughed throatily as the wet organ drove into her. They’d done this enough she knew the feel of his tongue and all his little tricks. She’d hoped the whip would be incentive enough but her pleasure only simmered for him now. No, it wasn’t enough.

But perhaps. Her hand found his jaw and she murmured a spell, feeling the heat of magic shoot through her. There was a moment that she nearly pouted as it seemed to have failed but Cenred gave a strangled shout and tried to pull away from her. Her hand slid to the back of his head and pushed him forward again so he was crushed against her, from his gasps, hardly able to breathe.

But she had what she wanted, could feel his tongue lengthening, delving so much deeper. It writhed like a snake with no finesse, no control from the man at her cunt. But perhaps that was due to his panic. No matter. She leaned back to enjoy these new marvelous sensations, moaning as her body became a drawn bow; her legs stiff over the unyielding chair and her hands deformed claws in his hair.

He tried to push against her hold again and she snarled. As she forced him back down the bridge of his nose rammed her clit and she arched off the chair with a cry. The angle of his head kept the pressure there and lightning flashed down her spine. She jerked once and let out a choked moan, ignoring the man making garbled suffocating noises.

She lost a moment of time as the waves threatened to pull her away from reality so that when her eyes focused again she saw Cenred had overbalanced to fall on his back, or perhaps she’d pushed him over and not remembered it. He glared up at her, torn between his severe lust and loathing of her, tongue slowly disappearing back into his mouth.

She gave a throaty laugh, high on pleasure, as his mouth caught the light, her juices streaming down and across his face. She sneered and brought a stiff leg down from the chair arm and brought her boot down on his trapped and very blue balls. “Don’t think I’m done with you yet, little king.” He gurgled a reply.

* * *

**62.**

The tower stood in the exact centre of a lush, green meadow. Tall grass waved around the hooves of a white horse, its rider squinting up at the tower’s single window.

The architects had neglected to include stairs, which was just stupid.

“Bollocks,” said the rider. With a twitch of heels against its sides, the horse cantered into the tower’s shadow. “Before I rescue you, I want to point out I’m not collecting a large enough purse for the effort!” This was shouted up to the small window with more resignation than belligerence. Princesses often couldn’t help getting stuck in towers; it was hardly their fault when they had no stairs with which to make an escape. And the people responsible for locking princesses up in aforementioned towers rarely left anything useful, like rope, lying about. Lots of harps and needlework to be found in stairless towers — very little rope.

It was difficult to see clearly from the tower’s base, but what looked like a messy blonde head poked out from the window. “Might want to take a step back,” called the rider, dismounting and unlooping a long length of rope tied to an iron claw.

Scaling walls was a sweaty business in full armour. When the rider finally gained a perch on the windowsill, it took her a moment to claw the wet hair from her eyes before she noticed the damsel trapped within the tower was neither trapped nor a damsel.

“Dammit, Tristan.”

“There’s no call to take that tone with me! I’m just as disappointed as you are.” Tristan leaned back in his seat, his purple gown tugged up to expose his hairy legs. Isolde squinted at him.

“What are you doing up here?”

“Prince-baiting. Princes can’t resist a good tower rescue,” Tristan said. “And I can’t resist liberating unsuspecting royalty from the burden of their gold.”

Isolde sighed. “And the real princess?”

“Sent her on her way a few days ago. You probably passed her on the road.”

Isolde swung herself into the tower room, brushing off her hands. “Nice dress.”

“You like it?” Tristan smiled, flouncing his skirts. “There was a yellow, but it’s not really my colour. The young men like the purple well enough. From a distance, anyway.”

Isolde hummed, stepping carefully around a harp to stand between Tristan’s legs. “I like the purple,” she said, rubbing a length of belled sleeve between her fingers. Tristan twitched a brow at her.

“What dangerous thoughts play behind my mercenary’s eyes?” He wondered aloud.

“Only that you have robbed me of my bounty, and I yours. But there is no reason we can’t still have some satisfaction from the day,” Isolde said.

“Go on.”

“Fine ladies often become overwhelmed with gratitude when they are rescued. Are you not grateful to me, milady?” Isolde asked, stroking her fingers over the rough stubble on Tristan’s jaw.

“Ever so,” Tristan said, leaning into the touch. “Would you like me to tell you how grateful?”

“I think I’d rather you showed me,” Isolde said, tugging Tristan from his seat and shoving him, stumbling, toward the pile of furs serving as a bed. Tristan laughed, settling on his back where Isolde maneuvered him, his gown fanning wide.

Isolde stripped off her leather plate armour and trousers, not bothering with her tunic as she planted her knees on either side of Tristan’s head. His large hands gripped her arse, steadying her as she smiled down at him. “A kiss for your rescuer?” she teased, purring when his fingers tightened on her rump, dragging her down firmly against his face.

His tongue burrowed deep and withdrew only so he could suck at her, making her grunt, thighs tensing. The happy noises he pressed to her skin sent tingling sensation tracking up her flanks and back. When he found the apex of her cunt he worked his tongue over her in short circles, rapid and light. She stilled, trembling, until she shouted — rutting against his mouth.

“Is my hero satisfied?” he asked, smug when she listed to the side, catching her breath. His hand tightened idly around his cock where he’d flipped his skirts up above his waist.

Isolde smirked, climbing to her feet and piecing her clothes back together. “As always.”

“You should join me sometime,” Tristan said, tugging at himself as he watched her gathering her things. “Prince-baiting, looting, smuggling. We’d make a great team, you and I.”

“Perhaps,” Isolde said, throwing her leg over the windowsill. “Until next time, Tristan.”

* * *

**63.**

Dusk falls as they settle for the evening after a successful day’s patrol of the outlining villages. Lancelot removes his sword belt with a sigh and settles on an upturned log. The sun has almost set but the air is filled with a balmy breeze that keeps him warm.

The rest of their group goes about setting up for the night. Elyan and Leon draw up Arthur’s tent at the far side of the clearing, before making their own bed rolls. Lance is on night patrol so settles back and enjoys the few moments of stillness as the others work around him.

His eyes find Merlin, as they often do, drifting of their own accord to study the lithe lines of his body. Merlin bends to start the fire at the centre of the pit, stones in hand, rubbing together fruitlessly. A second later and his eyes flash that subtle shade of gold, flames rising to lap at the kindling. He looks up to meet Lance’s gaze and grins.

Lancelot returns it with a small smile of his own and hopes the night hides the fact it doesn’t quite meet his eyes.

\--

They eat dinner in comfortable silence, tired limbs leading to tired minds.

Merlin clears their bowls, and takes them down to the river to wash them clean; on his return Arthur corners his servant. They tumble into the King’s tent, Merlin’s laughter echoing across the camp. When Gwaine’s arm reaches across and proffers the fur pouch of warm mead he takes it, gulps it greedily until it stings behind his eyes and burns the back of his throat.

\--

Patrol is quiet, as it often is when they’re so close to Camelot’s sanctuary. A twig snaps underfoot just as a solid presence slots along his back. Lancelot gasps in surprise, though soon his body recognises the muscle of the man behind him, and relaxes.

“Thought you could do with some company,” Percival teases against his ear.

An arm encircles Lance’s waist, pulls him closer until he settles into the bracket of Percival’s hips. It should be unnerving, for a knight to be manhandled in such a way. Lance knows he could fend him off if he wanted. But he doesn’t want to – that’s the point. Sometimes being taken, being controlled is just what he needs.

“How noble of you,” Lance replies. Percival tightens the hand at his side, grinds an unmistakable hardness against the linen of his trousers.

The breeze carries the soft snores of their friends lying dormant through the trees. Lancelot submits with a sigh, allows Percival’s thick fingers to guide his body as he leans, elbows braced, against the bark of a neighbouring oak, breeches pulled to his ankles and tunic shoved under his armpits.

Percival isn’t much of a talker when they do this – he’s not much of a talker full stop, but he always seems to know what Lancelot wants, and just how to give it to him. 

Leaves crunch as Percival drops to the dirt, palms grabbing the muscle of Lance’s arse and pulling his cheeks wide, hole clenching against the chill of the wind. Then it’s hot wet heat. The bridge of Percival’s nose nudges against his coccyx as his tongue works up and in and _there_. It’s like an attack on his body. The sheer force of the mouth on him is relentless and greedy. Percival’s fingers clawing him back so he’s fucking his face. When Lancelot’s orgasm hits he can barely keep his cheek from slamming against the trunk of the tree, rough bark grazing his skin. There’s a rustle behind him but Lance can’t gather the strength to turn and reciprocate as Percival rises to his feet, takes out his cock and rubs it between the sticky mess of Lancelot’s thighs. It would come to stand that this is where Percival’s is loudest. Broken curses of “fuck, shit...Gods have mercy,” fall almost treacherously from his lips. 

When he spends it’s with Lancelot’s name trapped at the back of his throat. 

\--

 

“What hurts most?” Percival asks, tying the laces on his breeches. His eyes drift from Lance slumped at the foot of the tree to the King’s tent in the distance. It billows softly in the evening breeze, shadows dancing across the canvas. “Him making Gwen his Queen, or knowing he still gets to be with him on the side?”

Lancelot doesn’t answer. Somewhere down the line it had all started to hurt just the same.

* * *

**64.**

Warnings: edging, sort of orgasm denial

**and the wind will catch her**

Elena kisses just like she does anything else: a little clumsy and very enthusiastic, a self-deprecating giggle caught at the back of her throat. Isolde doesn’t know why she’s surprised, honestly, though the shock may just be from the fact that Elena kissed her at all. 

(They’ve been dancing around each other for months, ever since Merlin introduced them, said he knew they were going to get on _fantastically_ with a wink and a wicked grin, but Isolde always thought it’d be her making the first move and not Elena cupping her face in both hands and saying, very seriously, “Please don’t punch me,” before leaning down to kiss her.)

When Elena starts to move away, Isolde makes a noise of protest and yanks her back in again, one hand fisted in Elena’s t-shirt, the other curling around the back of her neck. Elena huffs a delighted laugh and murmurs, “That was okay, then?” and Isolde wants to laugh except Elena’s eyes are more serious than Isolde’s ever seen them. 

Elena’s hands are still warm on either side of Isolde’s face, fingers pressing lightly into the skin below her cheekbones, and Isolde leans into the touch, not breaking eye contact for a moment. Elena gulps, her face flushing, but she doesn’t look away, either, and Isolde grins. 

They meet halfway and it’s better, this time, because Isolde isn’t too shocked to kiss back. She skims her hand down Elena’s t-shirt – one Isolde complimented her on a few weeks ago because it makes her boobs look fantastic – and slips underneath, laying her palm flat on Elena’s stomach. Her skin is warm and so soft and Isolde presses in, a little, just to feel Elena jump. 

(Or, well. Maybe not _just_ because of that, but Elena’s skin really is so, so soft, pliant under Isolde’s fingers.)

“Sorry,” Elena mumbles, drawing back a little, and if Isolde couldn’t already tell she was nervous, the way Elena’s shaking, unable to look her in the eye, would give her some idea. 

“Hey,” Isolde says softly, taking her by the wrist in a loose grip so Elena can pull away if she wants to. She doesn’t, but she glances up at Isolde, her eyes wide. “Hey,” Isolde says again, and then she steps forward, steering Elena back until she hits the sofa and goes down, lifting her head to stare up at Isolde like she’s waiting. 

Isolde stares back at her for a moment, two, thinks about all the times she’s fantasised about doing this, about pushing Elena against a surface and fucking her until she screams, Isolde’s name echoing around her flat. 

“Isolde?” Elena says, hesitant, and Isolde smiles, slow and dirty, because she knows it’ll make Elena blush and she looks so pretty with her cheeks stained red. 

(Elena does scream, later, Isolde’s hands gripping her hips to stop her bucking up into Isolde’s mouth, keeping her exactly where Isolde wants her. She pulls back whenever Elena gets close, biting the inside of her thigh or thumbing over her nipples or kissing the fleshy part of her stomach, and Elena’s sobs of frustration get louder and more desperate each time until she breaks and begs, “Please, Isolde, _please_ , I can’t- I need- _please_ ,” her voice utterly wrecked and Isolde just kisses the light thatch of hair above Elena’s groin and goes back down.)

* * *

**65.**

“I don’t want to.” Her voice is trembling around the edges, eyes wide where they meet Nimueh’s in the mirror.

“It won’t be so bad.” It’s poor comfort, she knows, but all she has to offer. Ygraine doesn’t seem to believe her; she turns in her seat and catches Nimueh’s hands in her own.

“I don’t love him,” she says. Nimueh pulls her hands free gently, reaching up to cup Ygraine’s face.

“You may, in time,” she says softly, thumbs rubbing along the jut of her cheekbones. 

“I _won’t_ ,” Ygraine insists. She leans forward to rest her forehead against Nimueh’s and closes her eyes. “I can’t,” she breathes. “Not as I love - ”

“Don’t,” Nimueh whispers, begging. “Please, don’t say it, not now.” It will undo her, send them both tumbling down a path there is no retreat from. She has seen it.

Ygraine’s hands come up to cradle her head, and Nimueh can feel Ygraine’s breath on her lips, can almost taste her. It’s too much and not nearly enough.

She stumbles backwards and her eyes fly open, she can’t bear it, how much she wants, needs, Ygraine. Has always needed her.

Ygraine looks beautiful tonight, as she always does, but there are tears in her eyes now, and Nimueh hates herself for putting them there. Ygraine stands slowly, as though afraid Nimueh will spook and run, hesitating before she steps towards her. When Nimueh just stands, frozen, she moves closer, closer, until her arms are around Nimueh’s waist, her face buried in her neck.

She’s mumbling something into her skin, words it will break Nimueh to hear, words that she longs for all the same. Ygraine raises her head.

“Please,” she says. Nimueh cannot deny her.

The kiss starts out soft, a shudder of lips against lips, Ygraine’s fingers sliding into her hair, holding her steady, anchoring her. The smallest movement, the tiniest pressure, Nimueh holding herself together by the most tattered of threads. She can feel her magic flaring inside her, rushing and building, golden and fire-hot, waiting to spill and ignite and consume.

Then Ygraine moves closer, her hand sliding back to tilt Nimuh’s head, her breasts pressing against Nimueh’s, her tongue reaching out tentatively to touch at her lips and she’s lost.

Nothing else, ever, will matter to her again. 

She undresses Ygraine, as she has done many times before. But it’s different this time, reverent, and Ygraine’s hands are never still, moving over her body, removing one garment for each Nimueh takes from her.

She lays her gently on the bed, but Ygraine tugs her down after her, and rolls them so she’s underneath. 

“Let me do this for you,” she says into Nimueh’s mouth, her hand sliding down to cup her breast. “Let me, please.”

Ygraine slides her leg between Nimueh’s and rocks against her, moving her hips _exquisitely_ , and Nimueh’s clutching at her shoulders, breathing heavy, heart pounding. The magic is thrumming under her skin, she can feel it quickening. It wants to bubble out of her, surround her lover, bind itself to her.

By the time she comes, she’s sobbing, and Ygraine holds her afterwards, curling her body around her.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” is all she can get out. It’s all wrong; she was supposed to be comforting Ygraine, she’s supposed to be the strong one. Not this weeping, wretched mess.

Ygraine turns her head so she can look her in the eye and traces her fingers along Nimueh’s face.

“I will be married tomorrow,” she says, calm now where she was so anxious before. “You were right, I must. He is a good man, I think, and he loves me.” Ygraine kisses her softly. “But I shall never love as I love you, and I do not desire to.”

Nimueh draws a shaky breath. “My magic is for you,” she says, clutching Ygraine fiercely. “It knows you and it loves you. I will always be here and I will always serve you, whatever happens.”

It’s not enough, Nimueh knows. She has dreams, dreams of fighting, of burning. They are always too hazy to be useful, too shadowy and ephemeral, but she knows the end, when it comes, will be savage.

For now, she kisses Ygraine again, harder, deeper. She runs her hands over her skin as if she can never touch enough, memorises the dip of her spine and the curve of her hips.

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” she promises futilely. “I won’t.”

* * *

**66.**

Elyan leaned against the hot stone wall of the fireplace his father had spent his entire life toiling over.

“I guess you are royalty now,” Percival said from behind him. He stood there, naked beside the small plank bed they had already perused in their attempt to get as naked as possible as fast as possible after a very grueling training session.

“No I’m not,” Elyan scoffed, digging his nails into the rough stone. “My sister is. I’m just a peasant.”

“You’re a knight,” Percival reminds him, smiling slightly because it had only been last week when Elyan had reminded him that he was no longer a peasant. It was hard to remember.

Percival wrapped an arm around Elyans waist, his large hands tracing up and down ebony sides. Elyan loved how large he was, and how he seemed to wrap around him, envelope him completely.

“I’m a blacksmith’s son,” Elyan said, tracing where he had tried to carve his and Gwen’s initials into the fireplace as a child, but it had been too much work. He had stopped trying after only carving out a jagged line.

“I don’t think of you like that,” Percival said huskily, nipping slightly at his ear as his hands travelled further south.

“You think of me as a knight?” Elyan moaned, leaning back to give Percival more access. He didn’t hesitate, cupping and pulling at Elyan’s cock. It was nothing like the first time, after their first training session as knights, when they had come together with hesitant hands and brutal force.

Percival groaned and thrust against him as Elyan gripped tightly at the stone fireplace in front of him. The hand around his cock sped up.

“No,” Percival said, his hand finally stilling. “I don’t think of you as a knight.”

“Then wha-” Elyan broke off as one long finger penetrated him. “I’m still ready from before.”

Percival smiled and kissed him softly. Then he added a second finger and crooked them just the way Elyan loved. With a soft chuckle, Percival pumped his fingers a few times as Elyan held on for dear life.

“What do you think of me?” Elyan asked, as he gasped and wiggled his hips back for more.

Percival withdrew his fingers abruptly.

“Mine,” he whispered savagely, thrusting into him. The stones under his hands were rough against his skin as Percival pumped into him with a hard, unforgiving pace. Elyan couldn’t stop from crying out, when Percival took his erection in one of his hands once more. It was too much. He spilled against the fireplace, stilling as his orgasm ripped through him.

As they both take two hesitant steps and drop back onto the hard bed, Elyan turns around to reach up and kiss Percival. It’s sloppy and messy, and after the second orgasm of the night, Elyan isn’t too worried about finesse. Their two bodies are intertwined together, covered in sweat and come from where it had dripped down their legs.

“What about you?” Percival asked. “Do you think of me as a farmer’s son? A knight?”

“No,” Elyan smiled. “I think of you as mine.”

* * *

**67.**

Warnings: dub con and infidelity

She was beautiful, walking through the crowded room, with her head held high, aloof. Her rigid shoulders only served to emphasize the line of her dress and her full bosom, heaving and sheened in sweat from the heat.

The covetous looks cast in her direction rolled off of her like water, and none managed to turn her head. Not that she would dare to let her eyes stray.

He watched as she slid to her husband's side, saw her flinch when he wrapped a muscled arm- more suited to war than to love- around her slender waist.

She was beautiful, a challenge, _wrong_ ; he wanted her all the more for that.

So he began his seduction, reveling in his own virility, the proof that he could still attract a woman.

He caught her demurely lowered eyes from across the room, and the dance began.

~~~

Vivienne gasped when Uther slid his hands down the curve of her hips, palming at her through the heavy layers of fabric.

The dress that had looked so lovely on her before, that had made the green of her eyes bright as any emerald, was now an unbearable hindrance.

It had been too long, with Ygraine stuck in childbed.

His cock pulsed, hot and full, greedy against the restraint of his fitted trousers, when she stood back and pulled a single breast from the confines of her dress. Her nipple was tight and pink, and very tempting.

Never a man to deny himself, he struck at her, his mouth a hot suckle that had her arching against him and mewling like a cat. Ygraine had never been so vocal. He thrilled at having that wordless praise now.

"Yes!" She cried out, prompting a distracted growl in response.

He laved at the salted flesh of her nipple, then bit sharply at the little nub of flesh. Her cry of pain made his head spin with desire, his cock twitch, and his balls draw up tight in anticipation.

Annoyed with her complicated gown, he gave up. He tore his mouth free and flipped her around, forcing her to brace against a nearby table.

She gasped when he lifted her skirts from behind and thrust his hand between her legs where she was dripping with want. 

"You little whore," he mouthed against her ear, "All wet for me, and your own husband so close."

"Don't..." she abandoned speech when he thrust two fingers roughly between her folds and into the clutch of her womanhood. "Don't _tease_ ," she gasped when he finally withdrew to wipe them wetly across her freed breast.

His chuckle was low and mocking. "As my lady commands." He freed himself, his hard flesh ruddy in the flickering candle light, and impatiently thrust inside of her.

She cried out like a wounded animal, and he bit at her shoulder in reprimand, then wrapped a rough hand around her face to cover her full lips. "Quiet," he warned, punctuating the word with a vicious thrust.

His taking of her was brutal, but so very good, and when he finally spilled inside of her, Uther was left with the dull glow of satisfied pleasure.

He pulled out of her with a nearly obscene squelching sound, and fastened his breeches. He did not look back at the sound of her broken curse, nor did he see her as she trembled, still braced against the table, head hung low as she breathed raggedly with unresolved pleasure.

~~~

Her eyes were bright with anger as she stared up at him, defiant and petulant all at once.

"There is no doubt," she insisted, "the child is _yours_ ,"

He wondered, in that moment, what about her had ever attracted him. Looking at her now, he felt nothing but annoyance and disgust. He turned and walked away, never saying said a word.

He would do what he had to do, but nothing more. Uther understood that being a king meant taking care of such... _difficulties_ , as distasteful as he might find them.

~~~

"Report."

The solider bowed low, "Your highness, it is with deep regret that I inform you of the loss of Lord Gorlois."

Uther nodded grimly. "He died well?"

"He died fighting, sire."

"Good. Ensure that his wife is well provisioned for. I think it time she returned to her family," The soldier bowed more shallowly in acknowledgement.

"Is there anything else?"

“Congratulations on your new promotion. Captain.”

* * *

**68.**

Uther paced the throne room, the setting sun bathing the hall in a wash of red. He had long since sent away his councilors, tiring of their constant bickering...and their insistence that he set aside his queen. Uther rubbed his temple and stopped beneath the western window, watching the sun disappear.

The lack of an heir was becoming serious. By now, he and Ygraine should have a passel of little ones running at their feet. Everyday the council's demands grew.

But.

Uther sighed from deep within. He would not set aside his queen. He would find a way, even if it meant resorting to sorcery. Even if it meant colluding with that witch. Uther sighed and rubbed his hands over his face.

The swish of fabric and scuff of shoe leather caught his attention; and he turned to see a beautiful woman standing beside his throne, her bright red lips curved in a seductive smile as she idly stroked her hand over the wood. She watched him steadily for a few minutes, her dark eyes assessing. Then she chuckled, low and throaty.

“You’ve decided,” she said, her tone smug and sure. “I am glad that you have come to see reason.”

“I have decided _nothing_ , witch,” Uther growled. “I will not risk --”

The priestess’ tinkling laughter cut him off. “Oh, Uther,” she cooed. “ _Life_ is risk. Do you not put her life in more danger by keeping her at your side, useless and unable to conceive?” She regarded him coolly for a moment. “Allow me to help you, to give your queen that which she so deeply desires.”

Uther turned away and closed his eyes, hands clenched in tight fists at his side. Unbidden came the memory of his love, arms wrapped around her waist as she sobbed inconsolably upon their bed as the maids bundled the bloodied sheets away. It was that image that decided him. 

Turning to the witch he nodded. “Very well, Nimueh. What must I do?”

~*~*~*~

Uther’s skin glowed and his cock hung heavy as he hurried down the corridor and threw open the door to the Queen’s chambers. The ritual itself had been short -- a few muttered words and a flash of golden eyes as Nimueh pressed cool fingers to his groin -- and he hadn’t thought to wonder at the triumph in the priestess’ eyes. 

“Go to her now,” she commanded. “You will have your heir.”

Uther fell on his queen where she lay in her bed, and it was the work of seconds to shred the delicate linen she wore. 

“Uther?” she gasped as he pulled a nipple into his mouth and thrust two fingers deeply into her wet heat. She arched into him, fingers scrabbling at his tunic. “What?”

“Need you,” he breathed, fumbling with his laces and sliding his trousers to his knees. “My love, please.”

Ygraine moaned and reached out to guide him back to her breast, her legs falling open in invitation. In one swift movement, Uther entered her and snapped his hips in hard, deep thrusts. Ygraine’s gasps and moans and screams drove him on as he covered her in bruising kisses; her fingers digging into his back when he reached down and fondled her alongside his cock. 

His climax caught him all unaware and he arched his back, driving in as deep as possible. Ygraine followed swiftly, and he watched in wonder as the glow on his skin pooled on her stomach and slowly sank in.

Uther pulled away and reached for cloth on the basin beside the bed. Gently, he cleaned his queen and lay down beside her, arranging her comfortably in the cradle of his body. As Ygraine drifted to sleep in his arms, Uther vowed that they _would_ have their heir, no matter the cost.

* * *

**69.**

warnings: knotting, double penetration

 

“Are you sure you can handle it?” Merlin asks, looking Arthur straight in the eyes. 

“Yeah.”

“Percy’s our friend. You’d hate yourself if you hurt him,” Merlin says, stroking Arthur’s palm.

“We’ve talked about this. I know he’s not a threat to me. I won’t attack him.”

“Okay. Let’s do a test round,” Merlin says and settles comfortably in Arthur’s embrace.

He nods to Percy who gets up from the armchair in the corner and stalks towards the bed. He climbs on the bed and in between Merlin’s spread legs. 

“Hi,” Percy says, grinning.

Merlin rolls his eyes and Percy leans in the rest of the way and kisses him. He can hear Arthur’s inhale and feel his arms tightening around Merlin’s middle. 

“Arthur,” Merlin whispers.

“Sorry,” Arthur replies and Percy looks at him to make sure they’re okay. “Go on,” Arthur says and Percy returns to the task of kissing Merlin who’s slowly melting under his and Arthur’s attention.

“Clothes off,” Arthur says and Percy’s not wasting any time, throwing his T-shirt somewhere to the side and pulling down his jeans. 

Arthur is peeling clothes off of Merlin while Merlin does the same for him. They get lost in each other’s mouths for a few moments. Merlin pulls away with a gasp when Percy sinks two fingers into his already wet hole. 

Four fingers have him clinging to Arthur, his nose pressed to Arthur’s collarbone, while Arthur murmurs little praises about how good he is into his ear.

“Ready. I’m ready,” Merlin cries out, his whole body trembling with need to be filled.

“Easy,” Arthur murmurs and lets Percy hold Merlin up while he lies down.

Merlin climbs on top of him at Arthur’s nod and lowers himself on Arthur’s cock with a long sigh. Percy presses himself to Merlin’s back, trails his hand all over his torso, plays with his nipples, listening to Merlin’s breathy moans. Merlin tilts his head back and their lips meet in a messy kiss.

“Now,” Merlin whispers, looking up at Percy, his eyes slightly unfocused.

Percy growls low in his throat and pushes Merlin forward into Arthur’s embrace. He locks his gaze with Arthur who stops thrusting into Merlin’s wet heat and just waits, his whole body tense.

“Okay,” Percy says and starts pushing in beside Arthur.

Merlin trashes in between them, held securely by Arthur’s strong arms, small distressed noises slowly turning into gasps of pleasure as Percy rolls his hips experimentally.

“Hurry,” Arthur says through clenched teeth and Percy pushes all the way in.

He nods to Arthur who immediately starts with tiny jerks in and out of Merlin and it’s not long before Percy feels pressure at his cock rising. 

“Fuck,” Merlin breathes out and Arthur drops his head to the pillow, litany of ‘gods’ and ‘Merlin’ and ‘so tight’ tumbling from his lips as he pumps his come into Merlin’s stretched channel.

Merlin is trying to prop himself on his hands, but they refuse to hold him up. 

“Please, please, please, I need,” Merlin whines and Arthur hushes him by drawing him in a kiss. 

Percy moves as much as he can in the full space, slowly losing control as his knot grows.

Arthur is stroking Merlin’s cock, Merlin’s cries growing louder with each one of Percy’s thrusts.

“Almost there,” Percy pants and let’s go of all his restraints, pounding into Merlin with full force.

Merlin clenches around them and Percy’s orgasm is pulled out of him. He collapses on top of Merlin, his cock still pulsing. Merlin is shivering through his aftershocks beneath him, moaning quietly.

Merlin’s breathing evens out eventually and Percy watches Arthur’s face go soft as he kisses Merlin’s brow.

“He’s asleep,” Arthur whispers.

Percy nods and helps Arthur maneuver them into more comfortable position.

“Was it what he wished for?” Percy asks.

“What do you think?” Arthur whispers back, caressing Merlin’s cheek.

* * *

**70.**

There is much Aithusa does not yet understand about the world. He is innocent, curious, trusting—all things a dragon can no longer afford to be. Kilgharrah must teach him many things, and there is so little time.

Aithusa cannot yet fly above the clouds, but he is skilled in stealth. A white dragon has its advantages, and Kilgharrah seems to learn a new one every day.

Kilgharrah teaches Aithusa of war, of the way men court mortality for the sake of fleeting abstractions like honour and duty. Kilgharrah explains the folly of their actions, the futility of war, and Aithusa seems to understand.

But he is reckless. Aithusa is drawn to magic, cannot yet ignore its beckon. Kilgharrah remembers his own youth, remembers approaching a young girl whose magic had sung to him, remembers escaping narrowly, his wings split down the middle. He learned that day that those with magic are just as dangerous as those without—perhaps more so. They become drunk on power. Only the dragonlords may be trusted.

Aithusa does not yet understand this principle notion, that willing good intentions does not make them so. And he does not respect the noble order of the dragonlords—an order of one now. The last of his kind. Kilgharrah has known that loneliness. Aithusa knows nothing but immediacy.

Kilgharrah wants to explain immediacy to Aithusa, to impart its irrelevance in a life as long as theirs, but the dragon tongue is limited. Aithusa has not yet learned the speech of mortals, is too stubborn and driven by the need to explore to fold his wings and listen.

Before they embark, Kilgharrah explains the concept of mating. He does not miss it, roiling for hours with another, but he feels an acute sense of loss for Aithusa’s sake. He will never know the joys of sirehood, of simple carnal contact.

As they fly through the storm, Aithusa asks where they’re going. Worry wells up in Kilgharrah when Aithusa does not feel the pull of the dragonlord’s magic.

They set down during a loud clap of thunder, the heavy sound of their wings obscured to mortal ears.

Aithusa moves to investigate the terrain as though he’s forgotten why they’ve come. Kilgharrah presses one talon against Aithusa’s ridged spine, urging him to be still, to absorb the meaning of what they are witnessing.

The King of Camelot kneels between the last dragonlord’s thighs, one hand resting low on his belly, soothing, the other pressing into his body. Aithusa’s eyes grow wide in question, and Kilgharrah explains that two men cannot breed, that they touch one another for pleasure and comfort. Aithusa does not understand the concept of comfort.

King Arthur presses his penis into Merlin, and Merlin’s hands grasp at thick biceps, steadying himself. Arthur lays across Merlin’s body, pulling a thigh up to wrap around his leg. Merlin rolls his hips beneath him, presses his face into Arthur’s neck, twines fingers into blond hair, his voice breaking on Arthur’s every thrust.

Arthur runs a hand over Merlin’s torso, brushing a thumb across his nipple, cradling his small ribcage. He pushes Merlin’s hand above his head, and Merlin moans low and loud when Arthur presses his face into the hair under his arm, revelling in the intimate scent of Merlin as he ruts into his body.

Kilgharrah is explaining the necessary transience of this union to Aithusa, telling him that this coupling will be lost and forgotten in lives too full of chaos and strife, when Arthur presses his forehead to Merlin’s, twining their fingers as his hips jerk and then still. Kilgharrah feels the young warlock’s magic thick in the air, feels it sustaining Arthur’s release as Merlin spills between them.

Arthur pushes back the hair from Merlin’s forehead and runs his nose along the seam of black and white. There is a kind of simultaneous permanence and finality about the act, and Kilgharrah teaches Aithusa about Albion instead.

He tells the young dragon of how these two fragile, ephemeral creatures will transcend themselves and herald the age of unity. Together they will rush headlong into mortality and defeat it, be born again, wash up on the opposite shore of history renewed, relevant, necessary.

Kilgharrah explains that the time of dragons will end. Aithusa bristles with the typical obstinacy of youth, the taste for eternity that cannot possibly be quenched.

The young king presses his mouth to his lover's lips, and Kilgharrah feels Albion set down roots around them.


	4. Group A (clean)

**01.**

She'd been sweeping off the pavement in front of her uncle's shop when they first met.

He'd pulled up on a motorbike – a big, gleaming thing louder than the floor waxer Gaius ran in the mornings, and she'll never forget those first few inexplicably nervous moments seeing him, the way he'd got off the bike with a swagger, offered a lazy salute, then blushed when his helmet got caught on his ears.

*

Balinor's locked himself away again.

Hunith wants nothing more than to kick his door in, splinter the wood and break the hinges off.

She thinks about leaving when it gets this bad, thinks – fuck him, and vividly imagines going back to her town, back to her job with Gaius, back to a shower every night and a reliable cooker. Merlin would have proper toys, playmates – stories read to him before bed.

The images make her sick with wanting; they make her rage when Merlin tells her he's cold and their blankets smell of cat piss, when all she wants is to heat up a goddamn _bowl of soup_ instead of eating it right out of the tin, but especially when it sinks in – as it must every time – how impossible the images are.

*

She remembers the first time they fucked.

They'd slept together before then – made love out in a field while she was supposed to be at a friend's, done it in the backseat of her beat up Honda more times than they could count – but this had been different.

He'd been disappeared on one of his weeks-long absences that, only later, she learned were trips to see Kilgharrah. 

And then he'd just shown up outside the shop at the end of one of her shifts, got off that bike with that stupid grin, no explanations, no words and just - 

She'd hit him. Gave him a good bruise and cracked her knuckles for her trouble.

But she went to him later.

He used to stay in a shitty motel near the motorway with green and maroon walls and orange duvets. 

The conversation before the sex is muddled now – too similar to dozens of others – but pushing him back, ignoring her stuttering heartbeat and boiling blood, climbing atop him – that's still crystal clear.

She can still see his wide eyes when she thinks about it, how he'd gone completely silent and still, uncertain, but flushed with arousal. She'd cursed at him, yanked at his clothes and her own and sunk down on his cock, cursed some more until he took the hint and gripped her hips, fucked up and up like she wanted and allowed her to hide her face in his hair.

*

When Balinor does come out later, eyes heavy and sad, Hunith turns her face and pulls a sleeping Merlin closer.

*

She got pregnant after two years, and then she met a dragon.

She'd known about Kilgharrah - had half believed he wasn't real - just some strange story Balinor had made up, no real magic, no real danger, but he stood massive before them, head bowed low to get a good look.

“He is the one the prophesies speak of,” he'd said in his rumbling voice, and directed a pointed stare at Hunith's middle.

Balinor had gone stiff. “He will have magic?”

“He will _be_ magic,” Kilgharrah answered. “They will track him. You will have to run.”

*

It must be near dawn when Hunith feels a warmth settle in at her back, long and familiar.

She ignores it for a time, tries to hold onto her earlier anger, but feels it slip away when a big hand rests across her belly, reaches further and palms Merlin's small head.

“I know...” Balinor says, voice low and quiet. But he stops, starts again, quicker. “I've done this to you.”

Hunith draws in a deep breath and holds it, then rests her hand atop Balinor's, fingers brushing Merlin's wild curls.

“I know you're angry – I -” he starts again. “I'm so close to getting the cloaking spell to work. And then we wouldn't – We could stay in one place. Merlin's magic wouldn't alert them and -”

“I know,” Hunith whispers back, and she does.

She knows he tries, that he stays away because he feels guilty, because he introduced magic into her life and turned it upside down and now there's Merlin and – All they can do is hope. Hope the spell works, hope that Merlin is the boy of prophecy who will deliver them all, hope that they will make it to see it happen. Together.

* * *

**02.**

He leaves behind the parts of himself which are knight, and warrior, and king. He shucks that noble skin outside her tent and comes unto her presence like a supplicant.

It is their way.

Cenred is no fool- it’s her way or none at all. He takes what he’s given when she chooses to give it.

In return, Morgause lets him have all the sensation he could ask for, and even that which he could not, _dare_ not, not ever.

He has watched her all day. She lights him up with her hard eyes and sets him asimmer with cold words, until he’s aching hard for her and his blood is boiling, until he’s distilled down to an essence of stars under his eyelids, and fistfuls of bedding in sweaty palms.

She has conquered him with her indifference.

Then, she divides him with oiled hands, parting his cheeks and sinking her thumbs into his body as though she were halving a peach.

He loves her fiercely when she lays him out like this, on his stomach, like an animal.

Beneath him, furs matted with sweat and longing make his skin itch, make him restless. Cenred rubs and rolls over them like a beast in heat- as much to relieve the prickling of his skin as to satisfy the desperate need to rut, to pierce something, to fuck the way he himself is about to be fucked.

She massages and kneads him until he’s swollen and thick with it. His back is strung like a bow, practically concave as he presents her his rump, and still she takes her time.

“Spread your legs wider,” she orders, and, “I’m going to fuck you, and fuck you, and fuck you.” 

Her words are waves of delight, pebbling his skin.

There is nothing left of King Cenred but bared teeth and hot, forced breath when she finally takes him, coring him with her greased, wooden cock.

He can feel the harness each time she thrusts into his body, can hear the leather creaking against buckles and eyelets where it’s fastened tight around her thighs and hips.

There is no room for thought, with all these sensations.

Trapped between the scratch of the bedding against his chest and Morgause’s yellow hair falling like lashes over his spine, he is adrift. A weightless thing. _Her_ thing.

His cock swings heavily, engorged and purple between his legs. It’s the sweetest agony to have it occasionally brush his thigh or the furs below.

Sometimes, she knows what he’s thinking. “Touch yourself,” she says, benevolent.

Leaning all his weight on his knees and one elbow, he reaches between his legs and fists himself, groaning. He fingers his foreskin and cups his bollocks, careful not to go over, not to lose himself just yet. She likes to tell him when.

With his eyes tightly shut, he teases his fingers further, following the seam of his sac until he can feel where the smooth wood penetrates him _again_ , and _again_ , and _again_ , just like she promised. He spreads two fingers around its smooth, timber girth and drops his head to Morgause’s bed, sucking air just to stay conscious.

Warm hands knead down to the small of his back, Morgause’s blunt nails embossing halfmoons into his hips. She draws curlicues over his skin until her fingers meet in the cleft of his buttocks, and then she rubs over the stretch where her thickly carved phallus impales him. Their fingers bond there, hooking each other and fondling Morgause's cock.

Morgause moans like she can feel it, and for all Cenred knows, she can.

“How I love to fuck your tight little arsehole,” she tells him, knowing how her vulgarity turn him inside out with pleasure, how it makes him pant and moan like a well-tipped whore. “Pull yourself,” she says, and he does, matching her speed, her thrust to his tug.

She takes the wooden phallus in her hand and steadies it, directing it to find the thing inside him which makes his thighs quiver and blood scream in his veins, and she caresses it with the tip of the cock like she knows, just _knows_.

Gripping his hip as tightly as her sword, she tells him, “Come,” and he does, and he does, and he does, until the tide of it breaks over his head and he spills thickly over the furs. She helps him ride it out, fucking him hard but touching him softly, and he loves the dichotomy of it, her way of showing him love. 

He knows she loves him. He’s sure of it.

One day soon, when her cause-- _their_ cause--prevails, she will let him kiss her.

* * *

**03.**

“You could get killed for this,” Ygraine warned, breathlessly. “We both could. Infidelity in royal family is punishable by death.”

“There are worse things than death,” Nimueh told her and nibbled gently at Ygraine’s neck. Her fingers were touching skin under the Queen’s nightgown and looking for all the places that made her gasp and wither. Maybe Uther suspected there was something more in the friendship between Ygraine and her best friend, maybe he didn’t, but they were careful not to do anything while he was home. While he was on a patrol with his knights, however, was a completely different matter.

Nimueh pushed one long finger inside Ygraine’s soft heat. Ygraine raised her hips a little to give her more room and to tell it was alright to give her more. Sucking the Queen’s nipple into his mouth, Nimueh pushed another finger in and moved them in a teasing way she knew would drive Ygraine mad with want. For a moment, Nimueh wondered if it was ever this good for Ygraine when she was with her husband, when she was with the man who was so deeply in love with her. If she would ever moan like this when Uther pushed inside her.

Somehow Nimueh did not believe it. The Queen had always been hers to serve, even before she had married the King, and she had always done it gladly. The King was nothing compared to Nimueh, who could make the lovemaking a magical experience in ways Uther would never understand. Uther never understood how magic and laws of the Old Religion truly worked.

Ygraine was pushing towards the fingers that were moving inside her. Nimueh found a spot that made her gasp and arch her back.

“Good?” Nimueh asked and got her answer when Ygraine pulled her into a furious kiss. The Queen bit Nimueh’s lip so hard that for a moment she tasted blood.

“I’m not a maiden! For the love of gods, go harder!”

Nimueh kissed her jaw and moved to remove the Queen’s gown completely. With her other hand she was teasing the responsive spot she had found inside her and with another she caressed her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. Pulling her fingers out, she kneeled between her legs, pushed them wider and began to look for all the sensitive places with her tongue instead. Ygraine’s hips twitched when she found the little nub of pleasure, and Nimueh kept teasing it with her tongue and sucking it gently between her lips. When Ygraine was whimpering and gasping with every breath, Nimueh touched between her own legs.

“No, let me,” Ygraine gasped when she realised what Nimueh was doing. “I need to...”

Nimueh turned around and straddled the Queen’s upper body, leaning between her legs to complete what had been interrupted for a second. She could not see Ygraine this way, but could keep licking, and feeling the familiar touch of Ygraine’s fingers between her legs, on her and in her, was almost enough to make up for not seeing her.

Ygraine didn’t come gracefully. She reached her peak begging and moaning and losing all control over her body. When she was coming and her fingers went limp, Nimueh grabbed her wrist and guided them in a way that finally made her come apart, too, silently but grasping the sheets and biting the skin of Ygraine’s thigh.

After she stopped shuddering, she climbed off and turned around to lie next to her Queen. Ygraine touched her face affectionately and that moment Nimueh knew he loved her. That she could never forgive anyone for hurting her.

“I would do anything for you,” Nimueh confessed. It was a rare admission; they hardly ever talked about their feelings beyond those of friendship.

“Would you?” Ygraine said thoughtfully. They both knew what was not being said aloud, but Nimueh had to know, _had to know_ , what the Queen truly thought, because on her own she would never go through with such a gamble on human lives.

“Uther has asked me to use magic to give you a son. An heir,” she said. “Is that what you want?”

After a moment of silence Ygraine nodded. Nimueh knew the wish would have a price, possibly a horrible one, but she couldn’t find it in her to deny her Queen anything.

* * *

**04.**

When Merlin was around, his mum being a hottie was never a problem: every time she snuck into Will’s thoughts while he manhandled himself, up Merlin would pop like a novelty toy with the magical power of boner-slayage and evaporate those pesky thoughts. But Merlin – bastard – fucked off to university, and she stopped being _Merlin’s mum_ and started being _the hot chick at the community centre who’s a total badass even when someone properly sketch is waving their fist in her face_.

Will tries – he really does – not to flirt with her, but one day they’re making sandwiches for the homeless or whatever (he wasn’t really listening, just staring at her mouth and hoping there was a slice of bread somewhere in the vicinity of his knife) and completely by accident he says her arse looks killer in those skinny jeans. She laughs and swats him, so he says, “No, really. It’s like a Chocolate Orange. I know the wrapper’s going to be a nightmare but I just want to get in there.” 

Things go full on awry when she smiles at him all twinkly and says, “You’re not too old to put over my knee, you know.”

Come the fuck on. There’s not a man alive who wouldn’t run to the toilets and wank like he was trying to come quicker than a human has ever, ever come. 

But that’s just a wank. A bit seedy, yes, but not flat-out, hold-the-phone _wrong._ No, he doesn’t get to _that_ until one Friday night when he’s coming back from the pub and the lights are on and the way she’s standing just looks sad, you know? And he can’t have that, so he knocks on the window and scares the shit out of her. On opposite sides of the glass, they laugh, and he gives her a thumbs-up thumbs-down how are you doing in there, and she rolls her eyes and before he’s thought it through, she’s letting him in.

“You missing Merlin?”

“Silly. I know he’s fine.”

“Yeah, well.” He touches her arm – just a friendly little rub, calm down – and she sort of caves, and then he knows it’s dangerous territory but they’re hugging. “He’s happy, H. We got to be happy he’s happy, even if his decision makes us miserable as fuck.”

She snuggles closer and then, wow, there it is: _the mother_ of all instant hard-ons just from the soft vanilla smell of her neck and yes, all right, the fact her boobs are smooshed up against his chest doesn’t hurt. Screwing his eyes up, he pulls away, and _fucking hell_ if her looking down at his cock isn’t the most compelling thing in the entire goddamn galaxy. “Sorry.”

“Nice to know I’m not completely past it.”

“What? You’re the best looking woman on the estate by fourteen fucking country miles.” 

“You’re sweet.”

“I’m serious is what I am.” And then – well, her cheek’s just there and it’s supposed to be a peck but when his lips land, something happens – frizzle-on or whatever – and it’s not her cheek he wants it’s that beautiful mouth. In a breath, he’s actually fucking kissing her and holy mother of god she’s not slapping him, she’s actually sinking in and fuck, if that’s not her tongue he’s a kipper. 

He’s not sure quite how he ends up against the edge of the table, but her knuckles dig into his stomach as she unbuttons his jeans and all he can do is flail a hand out for something to hang onto. He has no fucking clue why crawling onto the wood backwards is his brain’s take on a good idea, but he can’t stop to assess the situation because she’s struggling out of her skinnies and those black lacy short-knickers have always been his very favourite sort. Especially when they’re heading floor-ward. 

_Straddled_ , he thinks is the word for what happens next. Pinning his hands by his head, she leans over him, mouth twisting as she slides down onto his cock. She doesn’t give him chance to adjust, moves, and Jesus; he’s going to come in a truly undignified amount of time.

He strains up for a kiss, and as she grants him one, mouth desperate and her boobs grazing his chest, he thinks he actually might die.

When he finds out about this, Merlin is going to smack him so hard his face will be in a different time zone to his body, and it will absolutely, positively be worth it.

* * *

**05.**

The bell on the door rang, signaling a new customer.

He didn't bother to look up from his work; he needed to get the clock repaired before the owner returned. There was no need to, anyway. He knew who had stepped through that door. He would always know.

"Your tail is showing," he said, adjusting one of the springs.

"How do you know, old man? You haven't even looked at me."

Kilgharrah sighed and made a show of looking up; sure enough, Aithusa's tail was sticking out from a corner of his trousers. "It would do you good to learn some patience, young one. A hasty glamour will get you caught one of these days."

"Is that something you're just saying, or something you _know_?"

It was always a pity, Kilgharrah thought, that Aithusa had ended up such a rebel. He hid himself not like Kilgharrah did, behind old clocks and incense and eccentricities, but with tattoos and cigarettes and colorful clothing. The thin hint of scales on his neck would be explained away as either a skin condition or a detailed tattoo should any human ask, depending on what struck his fancy. Kilgharrah just wore high-collared shirts.

Kilgharrah shook his head and went to lock up the store. "It's something I suspect. I am not in the habit of handing out prophecies, young one."

The moment he'd turned the sign to "closed," Aithusa was on him, pressing their lips together and grasping at Kilgharrah's shirt. Kilgharrah allowed it, let himself sink into the familiar charcoal taste of the only other of his kind.

When they pulled apart -- Aithusa's eyes already glazed over with desire -- Kilgharrah wrapped a hand around his wrist and pulled him to the back room. They both divested themselves of their clothing, to save it from being ripped, and then Aithusa was pushing him down onto the large mattress in the middle of the room.

It was not a habit Kilgharrah often indulged in, these ridiculous human copulations, because lying with humans left him aching for the old days when he could take a mate in the skies. Aithusa, who had never known anything else, craved them.

At least it was better with Aithusa, who had smooth scales down his back, and whose breath lit the air with fire. And it was easier: Kilgharrah ground his hands down on the two small stumps on Aithusa's back, where wings would have been in his true form, and was rewarded with a deep shudder.

"Fuck, old man... you really cut to the chase." Aithusa dug his claws into Kilgharrah's side and dragged them down. It was just enough pain to light something inside Kilgharrah; his cock started to harden between his legs.

There was something to be said about the enthusiasm of youth: Aithusa didn't wait long to scoot back and lower his head onto Kilgharrah's cock. His long tongue curled around the base and squeezed -- a movement no human could hope to achieve. Even in this form, there was no denying that Aithusa was a dragon.

Kilgharrah smiled at that thought, and brought his hands to Aithusa's ears. They looked human, until he touched them, and then he could feel the thin, leathery texture of dragon skin. The touch made Aithusa purr around Kilgharrah's cock.

Aithusa pulled away. "Okay, enough foreplay. Let's get to the main event."

Even though they'd barely had _any_ foreplay, Kilgharrah thought, but he didn't protest when Aithusa gave him two fingers to suck on, and watching Aithusa loosen himself up with those same fingers was not unpleasant either.

When Aithusa sank down onto him, for a moment it did feel like they were flying through the skies. Kilgharrah wrapped his arms around Aithusa, raked his claws down his back. In retaliation, Aithusa bit down on Kilgharrah's neck. There would be marks on both of them come morning.

Kilgharrah let his hand settle at the base of Aithusa's tail, stroking and urging Aithusa to move. The mattress shifted every thrust, and the air started getting very dry. They could burn the place down around themselves, if they weren't careful.

Kilgharrah wrapped his hand around Aithusa's cock and let his claws lightly scrape across the skin. Aithusa gave a strangled cry, a shrill tone no human ear would pick up.

They were the last dragons on earth, and had been for the past two thousand years. Kilgharrah couldn't give Aithusa a true dragon's life; he could only give him this brief taste of one.

* * *

**06.**

She was a screaming bird with wings ablaze, she flew to the nearest sky, but it opened up into another realm. The wind whipped deliriously. She gripped the metal bars and shrieked at the gray sky, the black ground below, the line of creatures glinting with silver armour gliding lazily before this tower. 

She spun, sensing a beast, but there was Nimueh, who touched her, eyes wide but hands cool and voice warm. She fell against her breast, and they sank together to the floor of this sky-cage. When she wept, groaningly, Nimueh wept with her, _you're awake, you're awake--_

She lifted her head to find herself on a peculiar balcony. It looked down far, near as far as the cliffs at Tintagel. The view below was more unnatural than anything she could account for. 

She could be in hell. At least she had company. 

Nimueh's eyes were sunken, as though they'd seen far too much and would rather retreat, leaving dark shadows where'd they once shone bright hope. It was perhaps only Ygraine's fancy. She felt tired like after a long journey. A second look, a starved traveler's second helpings, said only that Nimueh was still hers, still beautiful, though miserable and bruised and garbed in a preposterous wardrobe.

"Trousers," she said. "Really!"

Nimueh's jaw dropped. It pleased Ygraine. Surprising Nimueh was no mean feat. The knowledge she held sometimes seemed only surpassed by her pride in it. Nimueh was drawing away, picking at the trousers; Uther and Nimueh always prickled at her needling their arrogance. Her kisses soothed the little wounds soon enough. Those with power such as theirs needed the gentle checking, to balance the spoiling adoration even she could not deny them. 

Even now. "And who's done this?" She laid her fingers against the bruise that bloomed bloody fingers across that darling cheek. "Uther will kill them. Best not let him see." Oh. But was Uther here in hell with them? Could one kill, in hell?

Nimueh's face twisted, and smoothed instantly. "It doesn't matter," she said, catching up Ygraine's hand in her own. "I'm so sorry I was away. Now that you're here...the boy will come when he sees you, and _he_ won't be long to follow in the boy's wake--he always does. Everything will be fine now," she said, as though convincing herself. "It has to be."

She and Uther always gave her these terribly intense stares, as though she were some fragile thing they could cage up safe with only their gaze. For the first time she felt as eggshell-delicate as they seemed to think. 

Her thoughts of Uther and Nimueh's bruised egos and greedy dragon-gazes seemed summoned from a long time ago. "Where have I been, Nim? I think I missed you."

"I'd have taken you back so much sooner if I could have, love. " Nimueh rubbed a thumb across Ygraine's collarbone. Ygraine found she herself was quite naked, but for a sheet twined round her limbs. She grasped one end. Clean, crisp between her fingers, but she knew it soaked with sweat, with red, and screams--

Nimueh watched her wary. "Love, tell me," Ygraine whispered. 

Nimueh bit her lip, then bent forward and bit Ygraine's. "Later," she whispered. 

"Where is--"

"Don't speak of him now," Nimueh said harshly. Her voice was the grating beast's that Ygraine had felt lurking outside her cage; then it was only Nimueh, hushing apologies, unwrapping her under the cold metal sky and shutting out the wind with a binding of limbs. "Later. Later."

"Hurry, then," Ygraine demanded. Now that Nimueh's hand was working at her, she felt wetness blossoming and urgent. "I need you now." She swallowed the drought in her mouth and smiled for Nimueh. "And I need to know, later, about that ridiculous outfit. What it this blue stuff? She yanked at the terrible trousers, coarse and impossibly tight. 

Nimueh laughed. "I can't believe you." She slithers out of the trousers, the strange leather coat of black, the obscenely tight shirt. "Thousands of years, and the first thing from your lips is a comment on my fashion."

Everything was hard and gray and new, from the open sky above to the rough balcony beneath her shoulderblades; she shut it out, and buried herself in Nimueh's familiar skin. Nimueh cored Ygraine with her hot tongue as Ygraine gasped up at the roiling clouds. Her nipples pebbled in the cool air. 

Thousands of years. She didn't touch it, for now. If she knew one thing about hell, it was that there was plenty of time here.

* * *

**07.**

“Did he ever fuck you?”

George wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Must you speak so vulgarly?”

“My apologies,” said Morris, sarcastically. “Didst thou prince ever bendeth you over and place his royal cock in thou plump rear?”

George felt no pity when the pillow hit Morris full in the face. Morris let out an indignant squawk.

“ _No,_ ” he said. “He did not.”

There was a moment of silence.

“Wait. Did you….” He waved his hands in the air, knowing Morris would understand because half the time, they didn’t even need to speak to know what the other wanted.

Morris laughed. “Are you serious? No, he didn’t. I think I was a plaything for him, but not the kinky kind I’m afraid.” He paused and considered. “I probably would have said yes, though. He’s a handsome bloke, even if he is the most arrogant prick you’ve ever met.”

“I pity Merlin. Did you know,” he leaned forward, conspiratorially, and lowered his voice, “Merlin doesn’t even know how to take care of the _brass_?”

Morris snickered.

“What?”

“Just wondering how he’s punished is all,” Morris said. “I can see it now. _Thou hast dishonored me greatly. Now, suck thy cock as retribution._ ”

George knew Morris was playing the fool, but he couldn’t stop the flush creeping up his neck as he thought about being ordered to his knees for his disobedience, about opening his mouth and letting Morris’s thick, heavy cock slide over his tongue while Morris threaded his fingers through his hair and murmured about was a _perfect_ servant he was, pleasuring his master so well.

Morris, observant as ever, noticed, his eyes widening in realization. “Oh,” he said. “Well then.”

George stiffened when Morris stepped forward and pushed him down, until he was sitting on the edge of the bed and Morris was standing there in front of him, lips curled up into a devious smile that made George’s insides flutter.

“Tell me, George,” Morris said, and his voice was rough and husky, and gods in hell, George almost _moaned_ at just the sound of it, “have you polished my brass today?”

 _Really?_ Geroge thought. _That’s the best you can do?_

But still….this could prove interesting. “No, I have not.”

He looked up at Morris, blinking innocently.

Morris reached out and slid his hand through George’s hair in that perfect way he knew George liked, just a little too much force, and a little too much scrape of fingernails against scalp, and tugged his face forward.

“Rectify that.”

George didn’t hesitate. He slid forward and fell to his knees in front of Morris, his hands reaching up to unlace breeches. “Like this,” he said, leaning forward to mouth along the rigid length, still covered by rough cloth, “ _sire_?”

Morris gasped, and George smirked as he finally pulled his cock free. He didn’t tease. He’d never been one for teasing (although Morris most certainly _was_ ). Efficient as always, he swallowed Morris’s cock to the root in one smooth stroke.

Morris made a strangled noise above him and clenched his fingers in his hair. Tears sprang to the corners of George’s eyes and his own cock hardened painfully in his breeches.

“Yes,” Morris moaned above him. “Gods, you’re good at this. So good at taking my cock and pleasing me, with your tongue, with your arse…this is where you should always be. On your knees, pleasing me.”

George hummed in his throat, forcing a high, keening noise out of Morris’s throat.

“You’d make the perfect servant, the perfect cocksucker, always begging and greedy for it–”

George bobbed his head.

“–and, oh gods, you’d love to do nothing but suck cock and get fucked all day, wouldn’t you?”

George didn’t resist when Morris gripped his hair and pulled him down until his cock was lodged in the back of George’s throat, and he couldn’t breathe but he didn’t care because the scent of Morris was all around and the taste of Morris was in his mouth, and Morris was coming, coming down his throat and all he could do was swallow and _take it_ , and really, why would he want to do anything else?

When Morris finally allowed him to pull of his cock, he coughed and gasped for air, palming his cock through his trousers.

“Morris,” he whined. “Morris, please.”

Morris looked at him and smirked, wiping a thumb across the corner of George’s mouth, where a drop of seed clung.

“Turn around and bend over. We’ll get you taken care of real good.”

* * *

**08.**

 

" _Aredian_!"

The guards scattered, recognizing a man on the warpath and not wanting to get in his way.

Balinor stormed through the castle's labyrinthine hallways and barged into Aredian's room. 

"Looking for me?" Aredian asked, arching a mocking brow. Balinor had never wanted to knock that aggravating, self-superior, arrogant brow from Aredian's face more than at this moment.

Balinor took a deep breath that did nothing to calm his fury and glanced around. Aredian's belongings were packed, and it appeared as if he had been fussing, waiting for Balinor to arrive.

Balinor slammed the door shut behind him. "What did you say to Nimueh? There's talk that she'll have you beheaded --"

"Oh, nothing important," Aredian said, shrugging his shoulders. Balinor stared at him until he caved in. "I might have suggested that having one's nose up the Queen's cunt is certainly a fast route to riches."

Balinor groaned and sank against the door. "Gods, Aredian. I warned you about your mouth --"

"I seem to recall your preference for my mouth around your cock," Aredian said, his grin mischievous, his eyes sad. 

Balinor shook his head. "Yes, but..."

"You spoke to the King on my behalf, I imagine." Aredian turned away. His fingers lingered on one of the canvas sacks on the bed, twisting and curling the fabric over and over. Rare was it for Aredian to show his true emotions, but Balinor had learned how to read the man, and his twitchy fingers were a sure sign that he was upset. "What did he say?"

Balinor stared at the packed bags. He swallowed the lump in his throat. "I think you already know."

"Tried your best, didn't you?" Aredian asked, his voice calm. His fingers smoothed out the bag. Balinor tried not to think too much of Aredian's strained tone.

"You know I did," Balinor said. Aredian was so close to a knighthood. He was the tournament's champion. He'd worked so hard for years to be chosen to come to Camelot -- and all of it was ruined in an instant by Aredian's foul temper and quick tongue. "Couldn't you... apologize?"

Aredian snorted.

"Yes, well. I thought I would waste my breath and ask." Balinor rubbed his forehead, trying to wipe away the growing ache. 

Aredian crowded into Balinor's space and said, "As long as that witch sits beside the Queen, the future doesn't bode well for either of us. Leave with me."

Balinor glanced once again at the bags on the bed. Aredian covered Balinor's mouth with a demanding kiss before he could argue against Aredian's plan. The kisses were harsh, urgent, hungry, and when they broke for breath, Aredian's pale blue eyes bore into Balinor, searching for an answer.

"I can't --"

Aredian scoffed, as if he'd known all along that Balinor _couldn't_. Balinor was the King's Dragonlord. He had Kilgarrah to guard and control, the land to watch over. 

"I'm sorry --"

"No," Aredian said, making short work of Balinor's cloak and armour, letting it all fall to the ground. His fingers were at Balinor's belt before Balinor had a sense of the whirlwind that Aredian had become. "No. Those will not be the last words I will hear you say."

Aredian's hand shoved into Balinor's breeches. Balinor was rendered weak-kneed by the expert stroke and twist of Aredian's callused hand. There was a brief respite when Aredian paused, and Balinor turned them around.

Balinor crushed kisses on Aredian's mouth. It was his chance to tear at Aredian's belt, to shove his breeches down, to lick and lap at a long, thin cock until Aredian moaned and trembled.

There was only the slightest lubrication from spit and magic around Aredian's puckered hole. Balinor aligned himself, rested his forehead on Aredian's shoulder, and shoved in hard and deep, damning this man and that witch for ruining everything they had.

They fucked hard and quick. Their harsh groans mixed with the sounds of slapping flesh and thrusting slams that shoved Aredian against the door. A pull of Aredian's cock pulsed and squeezed and Balinor moaned and sighed, holding on to Aredian's legs around his waist as long as he could.

Balinor laid on the floor afterward, his breeches undone. He watched in despair as Aredian dressed, shouldered his bags, and limped to the door the way he did when he'd been fucked good and hard.

"Where will you go?" Balinor asked. 

Aredian didn't meet his eyes. "It's best if you don't know."

* * *

**09.**

Moans fill the humid night air, drifting through the clearing and filling the empty space until it’s bursting with sexual energy. Will’s skin is covered in a fine sheen of sweat, uniform pants sticking to his legs and hair matted to his brow.

He cries out as Sophia pushes him into a tree and the bark scrapes against his bare back, cutting into his skin. Blood oozes from the scrapes and trickles down the valley of his spine while soft lips run along the side of his neck, tickling his flesh in the most delicious way. He tilts his head to the side, a shameless invitation for more.

“Join us.” Sophia hisses over his skin, the coolness of her breath making him shiver and break out in goosebumps despite the Louisiana heat. Tips of faery fang scrape over his skin and he whimpers in want.

He had come to Bon Temps to be closer to his last remaining relatives; Sookie and Jason Stackhouse. Jason got him a job as a deputy and he tried to live a relatively normal life, but with all the Vampires, Werewolves and other supernatural stuff running around it’s difficult at times.

“I-- I can’t.” Will stutters out, trying to hold on to any semblance of thought as she runs her dainty hands over his arms and down his chest. Bright green eyes bore into his, as if reaching for his soul.

Much to his surprise and horror he’s learned that he’s part fae and the faeries want him to join their super weird, super creepy, nightclub slash faery safe haven. He had thought it would be no problem to ignore their advances, but that illusion was shattered when he met Sophia.

“I will convince you William,” she purrs into his ear before sucking it in her mouth and nibbling until he begins to whine and squirm.

Will has been enamored with her ever since the shimmering blue portal opened and she stepped through. She wasn’t like the others, she didn’t try to hide her devious and dark side. The air around her screamed danger, while still carrying the sickeningly sweet scent all faeries emanate. He couldn’t help but to keep coming back for more.

“You can try,” he says just to see the way her eyes spark with challenge and her grin turn feral.

Her gaze doesn’t leave his as she sinks to her knees, silver gown fanning out around her and pretty lips mouthing at his cock. Slender fingers glide up the inside of his thigh, just barely brushing over his balls as they make their way to his zipper. The slide of the zip is noisy in the still night air, the pop of the button nearly deafening with the promise it brings. She pulls his pants down, material catching on his damp skin as they go.

He sighs in contentment and sweet relief as she takes his cock in hand and strokes gently. He is a man starved and she is his salvation. Sophia continues to look up at him from under her lashes, looking far more innocent than should be possible as she wraps her mouth around the head of his cock.

Air tries to escape him, breath coming in heavy gasps as she swirls her tongue around his tip and laps at the precome that’s gathered at the slit. She relaxes her jaw and sinks down along his length until he’s fully enveloped in the wet heat of her mouth. She pulls back, then takes him all the way down her throat and swallows around him until Will can’t remember his own name.

His entire world narrows to the throbbing pulse echoing through his body. He tries to hold her gaze, tries not to look away just like she wants, but his orgasm hits him with such ferocity he’s forced to close his eyes and throw his head back to keep from coming out of his skin. Distantly, he hears himself scream.

When he’s finally coherent enough to open his eyes, Sophia is still on her knees lapping up his come from her fingers. She looks magnificent.

She stands gracefully and extends her hand to him. “Come with me.” 

Her eyes shimmer with promises he’s not sure she’ll keep, but he wants to believe her, and he wants this deeply satisfied feeling every day for the rest of his life.

He takes her hand and walks through the portal.

* * *

**10.**

"I said, do not disturb us." 

Helios turned back to his guest. He searched for fear in her hesitant smile, but found only a nervous anticipation that warmed his loins. "Are you done lying to me, Guinevere?"

She was even more beautiful when she looked at him, defiant. "You don’t need to know about my life before. That's over now."

He gave a slow, pleased nod. "And you must choose a new life. Come here." 

She stepped around the low table, cautious, but with no indecision as he drew her onto his lap. As her thighs spread to straddle him, he smelled the scent betraying her arousal.

"Some fool has wronged you. He has taken your love and thrown you away like refuse."

"No. He is a good man. But there was another man, a dear friend--"

"You are a woman of passion." He brushed his lips over her neck until the heat of his breath made her shiver. "I would never make the error of leaving you unsatisfied."

"I never meant to hurt him." Her hands clenched on his shoulders. "But he hurt me, too. He betrayed me, too."

"I have offered you hospitality."

Her lips quirked as she followed his gaze to the swell of her breasts. "And your hospitality comes with a price?"

"This is not the only means of payment. But why not satisfy the ache in both of us, if you choose?"

Her gaze flicked to the bed in the corner, then down to where his prick battled to free itself and reach the heat of her. "I do ache. I waited for him for such a long time." 

Then she slid the fabric from her shoulders to free her breasts for him. 

"Such beauty. You were meant for great things, Guinevere."

"I thought I was." She arched her back as he suckled her. "Once."

"When I make love to you, you will be the highest lady in Albion."

"I feel wanton," she murmured. "And why shouldn’t I be? He had women, over and over. And he had Merlin, all along."

He freed his stiff prick from its confinement, then kissed her. "I am a generous man, my sweet. I will give you everything you need." 

When she was naked save for the jewels he had given her, he guided her down onto his prick.

She closed her eyes as she eased onto him. He held her hips and pushed up into her in tiny pulses. His thumb rubbed her, building her pleasure until wild gasps fell from her lips.

He rose, carried her to the bed, and laid her down in the furs. "I thought to make you my serving wench, but now I would have you as my concubine."

She stared up at him with her wide shining eyes as he sank between her legs once more.

"I would conquer Albion in your name." He fucked harder, working them both toward the climax of their pleasure. 

"I don’t need conquests." Her body writhed, telling him what she needed.

He pulled out and teased his cock over her clit. "Not even this lover who cast you down?" 

"No--"

"We will ride into his keep." His prick sank back into her. "You by my side, exalted as a queen, belly swollen and heavy with my offspring."

She cried out, tormented by his words and deep penetration. He pulled out again.

"Shall I come on your stomach?" He slid back in. "Or shall I come inside you to seal our pact?"

"I--oh, gods." She sobbed with arousal. 

"Make your choice, Guinevere. On your belly--or in it." His balls tightened, aching with the seed he needed to deliver to her womb.

She whimpered, nails scraping down his back. The sting only pushed him closer to climax.

"On your belly or in it," he growled, fucking her hard. "Tell me now."

"In it!" she cried, wrapping a leg around his hips to pull him deeper. "In me, inside me, now, please."

Her body began to spasm with her pleasure, the perfect moment for his release. He groaned with relief as he shot streams of seed into her belly. There was nothing like breeding a woman, with her consent and cooperation.

He savored his last pulses into her body as she relaxed beneath him. "Damn you, Arthur," he heard her whisper.

Arthur, was it? A common name around here. He grinned and squeezed his balls to make sure he had emptied them completely into her.

This Arthur had no idea what was coming.

* * *

**11.**

When it comes to sex, Percival has one rule. No married men. Not because the sex isn’t fantastic—it is, married men are so desperate for cock, they make the best sluts—but because he hates the guilt.

Arthur isn’t wearing a ring when they meet. At Merlin and Gwaine’s anniversary party. At the gayest bar in Soho.

That’s a valid defense of his actions…isn’t it?

Arthur isn’t dancing like the others, instead sitting at the bar nursing a beer, chatting and smiling and looking so damn delicious, Percival has to constantly adjust his hard-on. The one time he catches Arthur glancing in his direction, he makes sure he’s not quite so discreet about it.

Five minutes later, the gents’ door swings open.

“Bit loud out there,” Arthur says, not quite capable of lifting his eyes higher than Percival’s chest.

Percival leans against the edge of the sink. It brings him closer to Arthur’s level—toilets are great for the intimidation factor, not so hot for putting nervous guys at ease.

Arthur glances down. His nostrils flare and the tip of his tongue appears when it swipes over his lower lip.

Percival tries not to grin. His stance also puts the long bulge of his erection on prominent display.

“Lock the door,” he instructs. Arthur obeys after just a moment’s hesitation. “Now on your knees.”

This second command is met with more resistance, Arthur’s brows drawing together into a frown, his hand lingering on the door handle. For a second, Percival wonders if he read him wrong, but then Arthur swallows, shudders once, lets his arm drop back to his side.

“Look…” But Arthur’s voice fades away, failing or whatnot, and that’s when Percival susses it out, that he’s still fresh, maybe newly come out or off a recent break, and he wants this badly enough to ignore his reservations.

“Don’t.”

Straightening, Percival walks around Arthur and bends down to lick across his sweaty nape. Arthur groans, and his shoulders tremble, his head dropping to expose more skin to Percival’s tongue. He complies, gladly, taking away each salty drop, inhaling the musky scent of a man desperate from the want of it. His arms steal around the broad chest to draw Arthur closer, back to front, muscle to muscle, and it feels so good, this time the trembling is mutual.

“How about I get on my knees first?” he whispers.

Arthur’s moan sounds like assent. The way his hands mold over Percival’s to undo his jeans and shove them down to his ankles is definitely a yes.

Percival slides down, taking his time to map his hands over the hard body the clothes had hidden away. Arthur’s cock is thick and throbbing, the head wet with pre-come when he fists it and pulls the foreskin back to play with the slit.

But that’s not what Percival wants right now, not what he meant at all. Arthur’s ass has been calling to him from the moment he saw it, and he finally can bury his face between the full cheeks, breathing him in, tracing his tongue down the crack to the tiny clenching hole.

“Oh, fuck,” Arthur hisses. He grabs the edge of the sink, angling forward, spreading wider for Percival’s hungry mouth. Then comes… “Please.” And Percival can’t say no, because really, that’s the most perfect word in the entire English language.

He licks up and down, around the opening and over, letting the coarse hairs tickle his cheeks and tongue. When he uses his thumbs to dig into Arthur’s quivering ass, he has to sit back enough to watch the pucker tighten then relax, because the promise of it all has his cock aching, his mouth watering to eat him for hours to come. 

He doesn’t get hours. Within two minutes of his tongue plunging inside, Arthur strokes his cock twice and shoots all over the sink.

Percival folds over his back, soothing his hands up and down Arthur’s arms to calm him down.

“Sorry,” Arthur mutters. “I haven’t been with another bloke since before I got married.”

Percival freezes. _Fuck._ “You’re married?”

“Not that that stopped her from getting a girlfriend.”

So this was revenge. Even worse.

When he tries to let Arthur go, however, Arthur stops him. “It’s not what you think. We agreed we could each have this. Just ask Merlin.” And then, “Please.”

It’s also the most powerful word. Because it convinces him to break his one rule.

Well. That.

And it’s Arthur.

* * *

**12.**

Percival had never been with anyone, not like that. He'd only come close once. There'd been a girl in his village, back when he lived with his mother and father, back when he worked in the fields and lounged with the pigs and chewed hay with the horses. He liked animals and nature and hard work. He'd never even spent much time thinking about girls, until the one from the other side of the village started coming to watch him work.

At first, he hadn't liked the scrutiny, but then he noticed that she wasn't taking notice of his tasks and his technique and his trade secrets. She was just looking at him with a shy, hopeful look.

It took a few weeks because they were both shy and didn't quite know what to say, but eventually they made plans to meet in a little clearing in the woods. He hadn't really been nervous because he knew that she was just as new and uncertain as he was, and he wasn't even sure what he should be expecting to happen, anyway.

What happened was that she let him take off all her clothes and touch her soft, pale, warm skin. He touched her all over until he found where she was wet and hot, and then he touched her just there. She let him taste her there, too.

She had seemed eager to touch and taste him in return, but when he'd taken off his clothes, she'd mumbled excuses about needing to get home before someone noticed that she was missing.

Before then, he hadn't ever thought that there was a problem with his body. Of course, he knew he was taller and bigger than other boys in the village, but it had never bothered him. He had never even thought about the other ways in which they might be... smaller. But the village girl had looked alarmed, even frightened, at the size of him.

~

Percival liked the daily training that Arthur ran for the knights. He liked to practice fighting with his friends, especially because he knew that they would never actually hurt him, at least not on purpose.

Mostly, Percival liked trainings because of the way Merlin sat off on the side, watching. He knew that Merlin was watching them all, but he couldn't help but feel that sometimes Merlin was watching just him with the same shy, hopeful expression as the girl from the village.

It did things to Percival that he couldn't quite explain away as clumsiness or distraction.

One night, after a long feast that left Percival feeling full and drunk and sleepy, Merlin asked if Percival could stop by Gauis' before going to bed, to help Merlin reach something from a high shelf.

Percival knew that Merlin and Gaius had at least one ladder, but he followed Merlin home anyway. He knew he wouldn't get to sleep with Merlin, not with the body he had, but maybe he would get to touch and taste Merlin, anyway. If he was really lucky, maybe he would even get to kiss Merlin. The girl in the village had almost given herself completely to Percival, but she had never kissed him.

Percival followed Merlin up the few stairs that led to where Merlin slept. The room was small and messy, but it looked welcoming and comfortable. Merlin was flushed with wine and nerves and Percival decided not to wait. He kissed Merlin swiftly, his hands coming to rest on Merlin's arms.

Merlin moaned deliciously against Percival's lips and back him into a wall. Percival made quick work of removing Merlin's shirt. Merlin wasn't soft or pale or warm, like the girl had been. He was hard and tanned and hot to the touch, from hours spent working under the sun and from something else, something exhilarating and powerful that was humming just out of reach of Percival's fingertips.

"Oh -- _oh!_ " Merlin groaned when his wandering hands finally came across Percival's cock.

"Sorry," Percival said quickly. "You don't--"

"Why are you apologizing?" Merlin asked, his voice a breathless whisper as he scrambled to remove Percival's clothes.

"I said you don't have to," Percival protested, trying to cover himself with his hands.

Merlin grabbed Percival's wrists and pinned them to the wall. "But I want to," he explained.

He didn't look alarmed or frightened. He looked hungry and possessive and wild.

Percival believed him.

* * *

**13.**

He sees their hunger for him. Arthur’s men: loyal knights and true. Sometimes he hears their thoughts, but they’re ignorant of the depth of his power. They watch from across the fire, or when he mounts his horse, a gift from Camelot’s honourable King Arthur, the same man who buggers his manservant when he thinks the rest are asleep. The idiot doesn’t even know what Merlin is. 

The rest are not much brighter. Oh, they avert their eyes when he catches them staring. Fools. As if Percival could hide the thick ridge of his cock, or Leon his embarrassed flush. 

The first time he lets them fuck him is for revenge, to punish Arthur and claim the loyalty of the knights. They don’t know the dark magic he weaves as they rut into him, releasing their seed and sealing their doom. 

After that, it doesn’t end. The spell takes time to work. 

Mordred pushes back against the swollen prick working inside, inhaling sharply at the burn and the burst of pleasure when it slides right up against the place that makes his cock harden. Pendulous bollocks slap against his—the beginning of a frantic, rough fuck. He recognizes Elyan from the deep grunts that catch in the man’s throat with each thrust, sounds he can’t quite hold back. The forest echoes with the sounds of sex and the heavy breathing of the other knights around them, waiting with fraying patience. Oh, what would dear Arthur think of his men now? Or would he want to take a turn? 

Though he is blindfolded, Mordred can smell the musk of another cock near his face. He salivates as the owner rubs the slick head against his lips, encouraging him to open. 

Elyan isn’t experienced and never lasts long. His cock is fat and Mordred writhes on it, trying not to let his own pleasure show. He would rather they believe they are using him. He wants them to feel guilty, even as he greedily draws the cock—Leon’s, from the taste—deep into his throat. 

There’s no leverage so Mordred holds Leon’s hips, sucking and licking while Elyan moves faster. One, two, three punishing strokes and then Elyan emits a strangled cry, nearly falling onto Mordred’s back as he spends his release. The absence of Elyan’s cock is unpleasant, but then Leon moves round to take his turn.

Mordred feigns a grimace at the first entry, biting back a moan at the desperate sound Leon makes as his cock glides through Elyan’s come. Someone pets his flank, his hair, and he finds himself locked in Percival’s arms while Leon takes him, drawing it out with long thrusts he can feel deep in his bones. This will last—Leon likes to watch, let it build and then fuck with abandon. He likes to make sure Mordred feels pleasure. 

It’s almost tempting to feel loved, held carefully by Percival with arms that could crush a man’s skull, stroked by hands that know where to touch. Mordred hisses when someone, maybe Elyan, squeezes his cock, rubbing circles around the sticky head before drawing down along the shaft towards his bollocks. The pressure and his own helpless desire make his erection leak, drawn tight up against his stomach even though he’s bent over, Leon sliding in deep. 

Tomorrow he’ll insist it was the effect of the magic, the binding spell that makes his own arousal necessary, but tonight he’s nearly forgotten the words. Hot stripes of pleasure roll through his belly as his insides are painted with Leon’s warm seed. They will loathe him when they discover the truth. If they survive. 

He tells himself he doesn’t care. 

Percival steadies him as Leon pulls out, still shuddering with the final spasms of his climax. A soft mouth presses kisses along his spine, and then Percival lowers him to his knees. The knight’s enormous erection brushes against Mordred’s inner thigh as he moves into position, first using the tip of his cock to push back in the leaking come, making sure Mordred is full. 

The breach is intense, almost painful again, though Mordred’s muscles are pliant and his spine has gone rubbery. Percival groans and rocks forward, inching his giant prick inside—Gods, the stretch—until his bollocks are nestled tightly against Mordred’s arse. The hands on Mordred’s hips move him gently up and down and a soft voice whispers _a ghrá mo chroí._

Under the blindfold, Mordred’s cheeks are wet. 

It’s almost like being loved.

* * *

**14.**

Elyan took a deep breath and knocked on the door to Gaius’ chambers.

“Enter.”

Elyan walks into the room, being careful to shut the door after him.

“Gaius.”

“Sir Elyan, can I be of assistance?”

“Is – is Merlin around?” He asked, not wanting to have more of an audience than he needed. This was embarrassing enough as it is.

“No, I believe he is with the King, if you need him.”

“No. I was just – asking.” Gaius doesn’t respond to this, he just gestured towards a seat.

“Sit.” He said, sitting down himself.

“I’m having problems. When...passing water.” He forced out, eyes focused on the floor. He could feel the humiliation crawl along his skin.

“What kind of problems?”

“It’s just – difficult. I have to strain, sometimes, despite having a need to go.”

“Any pain?”

Elyan shook his head, shifting in his seat. He chanced a look at Gaius. The man looked impassive, no hint of amusement, which reassured Elyan a little.

“It sounds like a stricture.”

“What’s that?”

“A slight blocking of the urinal passage, caused by damage – I imagine you’ve had some injury and the body hasn’t healed correctly.”

Well, Gaius sounded calm, which was a relief. Elyan assumed he wasn’t dying then.

“So what now?”

“The cure is simple, but may be uncomfortable.” Gaius stood up and pulled out a book. He flipped open to the relevant page and showed Elyan a picture. Elyan felt his jaw fall open.

The picture was – well – there was a penis and someone was inserting something -

“I’ll need to insert a rod into the opening of your penis, and gradually force the stricture open.”

Elyan spluttered incoherently, and jumped from his seat. Hearing it out loud was worse, made him want to curl up and never take his trousers off again.

“What? No, I’m – I’ll – sort something out.” He said, getting up and all but running out of the room. There had to be another way.

~~~

The problem doesn’t go away. Elyan tried anything he could think of. He’d tried drinking water – so much he felt sick, stomach aching and swollen with it. He waited until he was desperate to go, barely able to walk with it. The resulting stream was pitiful, and it took him what felt like hours to empty himself.

He took himself in hand, wondering if the force of spilling himself would help – open it. He forced himself to keep his eyes open as he came, shuddering as he watched the slow pulsing.

He let his head fall back to the pillow, groaning loudly. He was going to have to go back to Gaius.

~~~

“Gaius.”

“Sir Elyan.”

“My condition has not improved.” He said, forcing himself to meet Gaius’ eyes. Gaius nodded.

“Do you want to try the procedure?”

“If there’s no other option.”

“There isn’t. I assure you, it doesn’t hurt, it just feels unusual.” Gaius said, reassuringly. He turned to the table and made a space. “Remove your trousers and lie on the table.” He said, walking to one of his cabinets.

Elyan stripped his trousers, and sat on the bed. Gaius returned with a number instruments. He opened a pot of oil and poured it over a thin rod, covering it thoroughly.

“This will require me to hold your penis and will be a little cold.” Gaius said. Elyan nodded and covered his overheated face with an arm, trying to relax.

He jumped at the first firm touch of Gaius’ hand, and bit his lip as he waiting for the inevitable. Gaius didn’t hesitate – as soon as he felt the rod against the slit of his cock, it was sliding inside him.

Elyan couldn’t stop the noise that escaped. Another hand pressed down on his stomach.

“Do not move.” Gaius said firmly. Elyan swallowed.

“Sorry.”

Gaius said nothing. The rod slipped deeper. The friction was unbearable, as was the feeling of fullness in a way he’d never felt before. To his horror he felt the familiar hot tingle of arousal rush through him, the heat from his face spreading, down his chest to settle in the pit of his stomach. He suppressed a shudder, feeling himself jerk as he stiffened around the metal.

Gaius just waited, silently. When Elyan had settled, Gaius started to remove the rod.

Elyan peeked out as the rod was slowly pulled out, watching the slick metal emerging from his stiff cock. Gaius ignored Elyan’s mortified whimper.

“I’ll insert a bigger one now.”

* * *

**15.**

Balinor's hand fists the microphone. His fingers slide underneath the mouth piece, his mouth ghosting over it like a caress. His voice is a desperate wail over the drums and the low throb of the bass that resounds in his chest. Balinor can feel the beat like thousands of fingers running over his body. It's like closing his eyes when he's buzzed and feeling the world turn. His heart matches the beat, chords thrumming faster and faster, the yells as he hits the chorus are hands on his body, pressing and wanting.

"I'd lay a thousand dragons at your feet," Balinor yells, energy bubbling from his stomach, electric shocks that leave his body humming in response. He can feel heat coiling in his stomach and he glances at his band members, all too far away. Balinor finally understands why people say that after a war all you need is a good fuck. If singing is like fighting, like taking, like conquering then yes, all you need is a good fuck.

Balinor's bandmates keep playing as he walks off the stage. He can see the headlines already, _Kilgharrah's Lead Singer Abandons Fans_ , but he goes anyway, heat pooling at his feet, his heart throbbing.

Uther is leaning against the door of their tour bus, his blond hair falling over his forehead, his pale blue eyes watching Balinor as though he knows. It's the same picture Balinor has seen hundreds of times before, Uther leaning against his bedroom door, against the club doors where Balinor's band first performed. There's a smile on Uther's lips, the expression on his unlined face open and welcoming. Balinor knows he'd lay a thousand dragons at Uther's feet, he means it now as he meant it when he wrote the song.

"Where's Gaius," Balinor asks.

"Back stage making sure the lights work," it's an answer and a plead all the same.

Balinor moves forward as Uther opens the bus door. They stumble on the steps, Balinor's hands on Uther's hair as he kisses him. Their tongues slide together and Balinor feels a shiver run through him at the way Uther presses back. Balinor's already hard, wants to suck Uther off, turn around and be fucked until he screams. He wants to paint the bathroom door with his come and watch Uther lick it off, wants Uther to come on his face, to eat him out. It doesn't even fucking matter because Balinor just _wants_. He can feel the bass from here and it turns him on.

"I want you," he whispers.

"Yeah," Uther answers.

They clamber up steps, fighting their way out their clothes until Balinor has Uther bent over the table where they play cards with the others. Balinor's on his knees, his hands spreading Uther's arse. He closes his eyes at the moan from Uther when Balinor circles his thumb around Uther's entrance. His lips are wet when his tongue pushes in next to his thumb. Balinor licks, sucks, swirls his tongue around Uther's hole, pushes his tongue in and out until his face is numb, until his cock is throbbing, until he's so close just from this.

He bites at Uther's arse, rolls the flesh between his teeth and moans in answer to Uther's cry. He gets up, legs shaking, and ruts against the cleft of Uther's arse, Balinor's body folding over Uther's. He feels Uther pushing back against him and Balinor wants everything at once.

"Want you to fuck my mouth so hard I won't be able to sing without thinking of you," Balinor rasps out. "Want you to come on my face."

"Fuck," Uther answers turning to watch Balinor drop to his knees again.

Balinor opens his mouth, his eyes finding Uther's and the way Uther looks at him, with a face that commands and eyes that promise; he reminds Balinor of a king. 

He'll write a song about that promise, the darkness in Uther's eyes, the way he fucks into Balinor's mouth. Balinor will pen the way Uther's cock feels in his mouth, how it stretches the sides of his mouth, how when he flicks his tongue against the tip, Uther throws his head back and moans. He'll write about promises and the way Uther's cock hits the back of his throat, how his come is warm when it lands on Balinor's face, how Uther lets him fuck in between his legs until Balinor comes.

About how Balinor can still feel the bass beating in his chest.

* * *

**16.**

No Sinner to Save  
Leon slipped out quietly, unnoticed, as he’d been for the last fifteen minutes. He didn’t dare breathe until the heavy door had made a nearly inaudible click behind him and then he leaned there, against the common room door for a moment. His breathing was heavy and he willed his nether regions to behave. Just when he was getting a grip on reality, he heard another loud moan from inside and panicked. His trainers slid on the wet linoleum as he ran hard and fast to the men’s room furthest from the common room and locked himself in a stall.

Leon dropped his head into his hands and grit his teeth. He’d been tempted before, but had been able to talk himself out of it. He’d been able to walk away from the situation, drop down to his knees and pray to God for forgiveness, like his parents had taught him. But he had never been so tempted before. He had never seen flesh against flesh, writhing and sweaty. He had never heard those sounds or saw fingers slip into wet heat. He had never ached to be part of something so filthy and hot. Sexy.

His head snapped up as the images assaulted his mind. He hadn’t even known that Morgana and Gwen were dating. They’d probably kept it a secret from him, because they knew how he felt, how he’d been taught to treat lesbians. Sinners. They were all sinners.

But now, he didn’t care. He could only see them pressed together on the sofa, half-clothed and panting, their hands moving over naked flesh. He could only hear Gwen groaning into Morgana’s neck, begging for _moremoremooooooore_ and the sound Morgana’s fingers made inside of Gwen’s dripping cunt.

Leon whimpered and beads of sweat formed at his hairline.

It was dirty and wrong and he would go to Hell. Leon knew it, knew all of it, but he couldn’t stop himself any longer. He unbuttoned the fly of his jeans and pushed them and his boxers down around his knees. His prick stood erect from his stomach, tilting up slightly to the ceiling, slit weeping.

Leon took a moment to close his eyes and pray. He asked God to take away his hard-on, so he would stay pure. He begged and pleaded, lips moving in his silent prayer, but his cock didn’t deflate like it had in the past. If anything, it only throbbed more, and Leon couldn’t, _wouldn’t_ , ignore it any longer.

He wet his hand in a long, slow lick of his tongue, remembering that Gwaine - during one of his merciless teasing sessions - had said it made for easier, _better_ friction, before gripping the base of his hard cock. He squeezed gently, giving himself one more chance to stop, before moving his hand up to the head of his prick and flicking his thumb over the slit. Leon sucked in a breath through his teeth, his back arching, fucking his cock into his hand, and a shudder ran down his spine. He took a deep breath, eyes clenched shut, and moved his hand again. He let his thumb spread the slick precome gathered at the head down his shaft. It was a feeling he’d never had before and, try as he might, he couldn’t stop the loud groan that spilled from his lips. He wanted to be disgusted with himself, but it just felt too good.

Unable - maybe unwilling - to drag it out any longer, Leon tightened his grip and started moving his hands quickly over his leaking prick, his thumb brushing the slit with everyone upward motion. He bit down on his lip to stop the streams of curses and moans from tumbling out; the sharp, copper taste of blood spilled into his mouth. It only pushed him harder and faster.

Leon’s stomach twisted in a weird pleasured pain as his hand moved across his dick until finally, _finally_ the pressure built like a wave and crested. His cock jumped in his hand and then painted the stall door with his come. He cried out, unable to hold it in, and his knees gave way. He fell to the dirty bathroom floor in a heap, his head in his hands again and his dick still standing at half-mast.

His body shook with sobs, even as he let his fingers wrap around his prick once more, tugging gently, sensitive.

He was going to Hell. God would never forgive him.

* * *

**17.**

"I dare you to get a facial"

"Not that much of a challenge, when Gwen kidnaps me for them once a month." Elyan didn't mean to let that part slip out, but 7 shots of tequila and this game of 'Truest Dare' was really getting stupid(maybe so was his mouth). 

Gwaine cocked a brow with a dirty thought plastered all over his face. "Gwen doesn't take you for THESE kinds of facials Elyan, unless there's some incest going on the rest of us aren't privy to."

And then it dawned on Elyan what disgusting stuff Gwaine was up to. It also dawned on the rest of those in his frat house that Elyan finally picked up on the challenge. "Oh, shit Gwaine! Seriously why the fuck do I always end up with your disgusting challenges?"

The game was 'Truest Dare'. It meant whatever dare was issued, the person saying the dare had to have already done it before. Meaning at some point in time Gwaine had received 'a facial'. The image made Elyan's stomach turn. Some guy's spunk dripping all over Gwaine's face was not a turn on, and the thought of that gunk all over his own face made him wrinkle his nose.

"Do you forfeit the challenge?" Leon asked with a raised glass of the punishment drink.

Elyan remembered the effects of Morgana's 'Devil's Brew'. A few seconds of grossness wasn't as bad as what could happen if he didn't remember anything at all about the night, and spent the next morning hugging the frat's toilet.

"I accept the challenge." Elyan nearly soberly replied.

"Devil's Brew is the devil!" Lancelot shouted as he passed out from drinking a shot of the stuff less than ten minutes before. Poor bastard should have let Leon lick his nipple.

"I nominate Percy for the applicator of the facial!" Merlin giggled into Arthur's side.

Arthur nodded with a drunk wave of a royal like hand, "I second the motion for Percy Lotion."

Elyan's eyes shot up to Percy who was sitting a little behind him and to the right on the couch. Now that he thought about it, he had been resting against Percy's leg most of the evening. The floor by the coffee table was rather comfortable and Percy and he just happened to normally sit that way. There wasn't anything odd about it. 

Percy blushed severely as more catcalls for him to whip out his junk and start wanking were made.

Elyan quickly turned his head forward, staring at all the empty bags of snacks, boxes of half eaten pizza, and various forms of alcohol littering every surface.

The sound of a zipper stilled the room for only a moment before more whoops and shouts of encouragement began.

Percy and he roomed together before getting into this house with Arthur and his cronies. They were friends. They were close enough that this wouldn't be a problem, but Elyan wanted to make sure Percy was ok with it. So he made the decision to turn around and look over his shoulder at Percy's eyes.

The taller and more muscular man was always talking to Elyan with his eyes. They liked to have short conversations about everything from the last test they took together to the silly shit one of the other Knights of Alpha house got caught doing. All of these things said with nothing more than a look. 

At the moment Percy was saying Elyan didn't have to do this. Elyan nonverbally replied with the same line. Percy smiled and looked down as his fist working his cock. He looked back up at Elyan and his eyes were saying something Elyan had never seen before. "I want this. I want you." 

Elyan gulped the air in his open and recently parched mouth. Percy's tugs were getting more frantic and the catcalls of the room blended to a pornographic static in Elyan's ears.

He shifted his weight to his knees turning his body a little more to watch his friend watching him as Percy pulled the full length of his shaft, flexing his biceps and thighs. He stood from the couch close to completion, cock dripping at Elyan's nose.

"I want you too." Elyan replied with his eyes right before closing them.

Percy moaned from his toes and warm splashes streaked across Elyan's face.

Now if only he could dare Percy to lick him clean.

* * *

**18.**

“They’re calling it Fairy Dust, Sire,” Gaius said, standing in front of the court. “It’s being marketed as a love potion in the lower town.” 

“Fairy Dust,” Arthur asked from the throne, incredulous. “What does it do?”

Gaius raised his eyebrow.

“It inflames the passions,” he said evenly, ignoring Merlin snickering beside him. “The individuals affected seek release until the potion wears off.”

Arthur shifted on his throne. “Is it dangerous?”

“The potion is fairly weak, lasting for only a few hours. I’ve been treating sore muscles, chafing, imbalance of the humours…”

“Keep me informed of any further developments, Gaius,” Arthur said, coughing into his fist and looking decidedly uncomfortable.

Gaius bowed.

-

A few days later, the first of the castle staff walked gingerly into Gaius’s chamber. George was flushed, embarrassed as he shuffled in, normally-stiff posture a little bowed, fast gait a little slower.

“Is everything alright?” Gaius asked. 

George straightened, his expression pinched in pain, his hands clasped behind his back. “I...,” he trailed off, cleared his throat. “I would like some salve, if possible.”

“Of course,” Gaius said, taking a small pot off the shelf. It was becoming harder to keep it in stock. “Chafing?” he prompted.

George gave a slight nod. “And some scratches… on my back... and elsewhere.”

“Did you get them polishing?” Merlin asked smirking, looking up from where he had been grinding herbs for the needed remedies. 

George turned a deep red but lifted his nose in the air. “Good day, Gaius,” he said, politely, taking the salve and turning on his heel. 

“Merlin, you should be kinder,” Gaius admonished, once George had fled. “One of your friends might be afflicted next.”

Merlin snorted. “I don’t know anyone that stupid.”

-

It sounded like a battle was taking place in the armory. Gaius was coming back from his rounds of the castle and heard the crashes of armor, the grunts of men fighting, and curses… many, many curses. 

Alarmed, Gaius peered through the small crack in the door. 

“Fuck, Percival! Fuck!” Gwaine crowed, head thrown back, bouncing on Percival’s lap. 

Percival’s large hands were wrapped around Gwaine’s hips, his breeches pushed to his knees, his tunic ripped where Gwaine’s fingers were clenching in the fabric, his muscles flexing violently with every forceful snap of his hips. Gwaine slammed down, meeting Percival thrust for thrust, one hand moving rapidly between them, bringing himself to completion while absolute filth spilled past his lips about the size and girth of Percival’s cock. 

Gaius quickly pulled the door closed, eyes wide. 

He needed to make more salve. 

Hours later, the pair hobbled in, looking red-faced and awkward. 

“Rough training session,” Gwaine said as he plucked the jar from Gaius’s outstretched hand. 

“Excruciating,” Percival echoed.

Gaius didn’t comment, merely raised an eyebrow knowingly, and the two shuffled away.

-  
Once the rumors circulated that Fairy Dust wasn’t a love potion but merely turned individuals into mindless rutting animals, the need for treatment began to diminish. Gaius was glad. He had his fill of uncomfortable conversations about rashes in awkward places and blushing women and stuttering men with sex-related injuries. 

Though the epidemic had lessened, it didn’t mean Merlin could shirk his duties. 

“Where is that boy?” Gaius muttered as he walked to Arthur’s chambers. He had sent Merlin out hours ago to collect herbs to replenish the diminished stores and he had yet to return.

The king’s chamber door was not guarded which was odd in itself but so were the sounds emitting from within – moaning, grunting, the slap of skin against skin, a loud shout of _yes!_ followed by _fuck!_

Eyebrow in his hairline, Gaius knocked and waited. There was a crash from inside, a flurry of loud curses and then the door swung inward. Arthur stood in the doorway, blocking any view to the inside, wearing only a shift that fell to his knees. His hair was sweat-soaked and disheveled, his breathing labored, a flush high on his cheeks and a purpling bruise on his throat. 

“Gaius,” he squeaked. “Can I help you with something?”

“I’m looking for Merlin, Sire.”

Arthur swallowed, and he shifted, leaned against the door frame. “Merlin is indisposed at the moment.”

“Indisposed?”

“Yes,” Arthur gasped. “Important business. I’ll send him to you as soon as he is available.”

Gaius bowed, the door slamming shut almost immediately, but not before he heard Arthur shout. 

“Merlin! Get back on that bed. I’m not done with you!”

Gaius huffed. 

Stupid, indeed.

* * *

**19.**

"It's so _kind_ of you to come and lend a hand, Sir Elyan," Hunith says, and Will wants to spit, because kindness has nothing to do with it. The knight's here on Arthur's orders and they all know it. 

"Come to remind us all where we stand, isn't that it?"

"Give it a rest," says Merlin. "We've only just arrived. Let's have something to eat before we start talking about politics."

"Everything's politics," Will mutters, checking out Elyan's shapely arse as he follows them into Hunith's house.

Because, as annoying as it is to have a physical reminder of Camelot's new status as "protector" of Ealdor, it's not like the bloke is especially hard to look at. And after a few hours in the fields the next day Will has to recognise that he's grateful for the help. Elyan's got a fighter's strength but, unlike Arthur, he handles a scythe as gracefully as a sword.

"Slower," says Will. "Even in a good year like this, we can't afford to scatter grain in the dirt like you're doing." 

Without a word, Elyan incorporates the suggestion, still cutting efficiently but with a shorter, more careful arc, so the ear falls close to the stalk. 

"You like that, don’t you, taking orders? I bet Prince What's-His-Name _loves_ you."

If Merlin were with them he'd just roll his eyes. Yes, obviously, Will knows Arthur's name. Obviously Will's spent a good part of the past four years thinking about the man so special Merlin would give his life for him, would expect Will to give his life for him, and is willing to give up the best years of his life serving him, whatever that means. Obviously (particularly while lying alone at night), Will's pondered in some detail what "serving Arthur" might mean. 

Merlin’s on the other side of the field, though. " _King_ Arthur," Elyan says coldly.

Right. Obviously Will knows that too. He shrugs and turns back to his work. "I’d never want to work for royalty, myself. 'Bring me my armour, Elyan! Polish my boots!' Gods, I don’t know how you stand for it.”

"I'm his knight, not his servant."

"Yeah? What's that like then?"

Elyan swings the scythe. "He knows fighting like you know farming. So he wants us to do it better, just like you. 'Elyan, you're not guarding your left side, take it again," he'll say. Or he'll tell us which positions to take when we're fighting in a group. It's not demeaning, it's just…it feels good, knowing where I'm supposed to be." 

"Yeah, I can see why you'd pick that over running your own forge and supplying a village of workers with the tools they need."

"Don't be an ass. There are plenty of blacksmiths in Albion, and you know Arthur's a better man than you'll ever be."

Elyan had slept in the barn the first night, which was bollocks. The second night, after dinner with Merlin and Hunith, they stop to pick up his things so he can move to Will's, and in the dark of the hayloft Elyan says, "You wanted it too."

"Wanted what, you arrogant sod?"

He feels a hand on his shoulder, and Elyan says, "Wanted to be a knight once, just like your dad, Merlin told me. Only natural, that. I wanted to be a blacksmith until I found out how powerless blacksmiths really are."

"I never wanted—" Will licks his lips, finding his mouth dry and his stomach tight. He tries to shrug Elyan's hand away but the weight just gets heavier. 

"Get on your knees, Sir William."

The fall is abrupt, but the hay softens the impact. "Does Arthur talk to you like that?"

He thinks Elyan's shaking his head. It doesn't matter; it's them here now, Elyan's warmth and the scent of hard work crowding close behind him. "See how good it feels?" Elyan reaches around to cup the bulge in Will's trousers. "Doesn't matter what he's telling you to do, not when it's already what you want. And you want this."

"You're not my king, you're nothing to me," says Will, but the truth is Elyan's commands do mean something to him. So do his armour and his bright red cape, and so does the pressure of his erection against Will's backside. Will shoves his trousers down and rocks, forward into Elyan's hand, back against Elyan's cock. 

"Nice," Elyan says, "steady," his strokes firm and confident as his voice. "That's it. We'll make a knight of you yet."

* * *

**20.**

The first day of the job, Gwaine had taken him aside for some friendly advice: go to Leon whenever possible (good bloke, has an in with both Arthur and Morgana, even a measure of respect from Uther himself), join the company’s footie league (best way to approach the princess), _hands off Merlin_ (seriously mate, not if you want your bollocks intact).

It seemed easy enough to follow. Percy was good at falling in line, going through middle men. He’d already looked up the team and was anxious to get back out on the pitch. And he was rubbish at dating -- avoiding mixing it up with colleagues wouldn’t be a hardship, he’d never jeopardise his job.

His resolve lasted all of an hour until he actually met Merlin. He’d been charmed from the very start, from that first knock of a sharp elbow into his side, that enormous grin that crinkled those gorgeous blue eyes into ridiculous slits. Merlin was the very picture of the bloke Percy always went for but never got more than a one off from, maybe a string of shags where they’d ask to be held down, fucked into oblivion. The sort of bloke that loved to hang off his arms, not his words.

Except Merlin was beautiful and brilliant and somehow saw the same in everyone else. He was hopeless at football, hopeless at walking in a straight line truth be told. He talked with his hands, moved his mouth in distracting ways, hung off everyone’s last word as if they spun gold with their lips.

And he was taken. He was very much taken -- the words looped in his mind with the shock. Percy had thought-- He was a bloody fool, but he’d thought when Gwaine told him hands off that he meant only that Merlin was Arthur’s best mate, suffered under his fierce protection. He never once thought they were _together_ , not Arthur with his series of blondes -- intimidating in their attractiveness, all curves and sharp dresses and sharper smiles, every click of their heels screaming of fine breeding.

He should go. If he valued his job, he would leave _right the fuck now_ , but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight of Merlin’s long pale back. Percy memorised every knob of his spine, knew he’d be able to pick it out of a lineup forever after.

He never thought Merlin would be so graceful outside of his ill-fitting suits, never imagined he’d be so wanton as he rutted his hips eagerly against Arthur’s clothed thighs, his own fingers working himself open. Percy stared at the sight of those long fingers easing in and out, getting decidedly desperate and losing their rhythm. He never imagined Merlin in bed at all. It had seemed too disrespectful. He’d only had thoughts of courting Merlin properly, asking Arthur for permission as strange and antiquated as that had seemed. He thought Arthur with his oddly chivalrous, mediaeval ways would appreciate it, and he had to bite back the sudden bark of wild laughter at the thought.

He didn’t know what was better ( _worse_ ) -- the sight or the sounds. Merlin kept murmuring sweet endearments between his gasps, his pleas for _more_ and _harder_ and _god, Arthur, don’t tease, I need it, fuuuuck_ \-- Merlin seemed to be falling apart while Arthur was still calm and collected, still fucking dressed, that bloody wanker, how could he--

“You’re so desperate for it aren’t you, sweetheart? You always want it so much. Go on, then,” Arthur urged, laughing.

“God, yes,” was the breathy response as Merlin practically clawed at the zip of Arthur’s trousers, and Percy finally stumbled back out of the office with the image of Merlin sinking down on Arthur’s cock seared on his retinas, the sound of Arthur’s laughter trailing behind him.

* * *

**21.**

Morgause is supposed to be the enemy. 

And she is. She really, really is. 

Leon has to see her in the courtroom, defending criminals that everyone at Pendragon Law knows are guilty of an unholy number of horrible things. Leon has to sit next to Arthur Pendragon on the prosecutor's bench and watch her calm, impassive face.

It's bad enough that they're sleeping together. But the shame doesn't come completely from that—no, the humiliation comes from what he wants after he gets home from long day losing to her in the courtroom.

He doesn't have to walk into her bedroom. It's a choice. She's there, waiting for him, if he needs it. If not, she'll come out and they'll have dinner, fight about whether or not his boss his sleeping with the coffee-cart boy, and have really fantastic sex. 

Leon goes into the room. 

"Undress," she says and Leon swallows whatever is bubbling up in his throat to comply. She's strikingly gorgeous: bare except for her bra and he can see the dip of her spine, her hair cascading in perfect tendrils—not a single hint that she's been doing battle with one of the most prestigious law firms in the world. 

He's naked and on his knees, crawling because _he wants to_ , before she can call out the order.

"Look at you," Morgause whispers, and he desperately wants to meet her eyes because he knows they'll be bright with approval. He keeps his eyes downcast.

"So eager and ready for me," she says, fingers carding through his messy hair. "Such a good little boy." 

He swallows, unable to stop himself from pushing up into her fingers. They tighten and her fingernails drag into his scalp. He gasps but holds back the whine that threatens. 

"No, Leon. Tonight you'll make noise for me." 

It's beyond an order. It's a faithful promise. 

He let's her fingers twist, hard pressing, as she guides him forward. He shuffles, his knees digging into the hardwood of her bedroom floor. For a few moments, he closes his eyes to enjoy the pain the radiates down his spine and settles low in his balls. She smells amazing, like sharp citrus and clean linen. 

"Open your eyes." 

When he does, she's guided him between her soft thighs. He stares resolutely at her stomach, keeping his wandering eyes under control. He has no desire to wait any longer. He just _wants_ and there is a simplicity here, just—

"You may suck me," Morgause says. "You can try and get me hard—if you can." 

Leon does hesitate. His mind goes blissfully blank as soon as he opens his mouth, letting out the moan that has been trapped there. He allows himself to finally look down, taking in the soft cock inside her harness. It's a soft, peach coloured, resting against the paleness of her thigh.

"Go on then, Leon," she says, voice quiet and calm in command. "See if your whore mouth can get me hard enough to fuck you." 

"Oh please," he barely gets out before he's curling down to hunch over her lap so that he can slide his mouth, wet and open and needy, over the head of her fleshy cock. 

"There you go." 

He sinks down, able to get the entirety of her inside his mouth because she's _so soft_ against his tongue. He can almost imagine the way her cock would swell in his mouth—if he was ever good enough—

"Stop thinking and suck my dick, faggot," she says, soft and kind and—

Leon suckles, tongue working the underside and he inhales hard, struggling to breathe with her cock filling his mouth. He can smell her though and he imagines that she's wet underneath his chin, that it's not just his sloppy spit. 

He moans around her. 

"Oh Leon," Morgause says, pushing him down until he's choking, tears prickling at the corners of his mouth and running down his cheeks. "You'll never be good enough to get me hard. Nono, my darling fag, but don't worry." 

She pulls back and then thrusts back in, his teeth cracking against the d-ring of her harness. 

"I'll fix you—make you worthy for my cock, fuck you open and make you cry," she says with a sweetness that Leon feels in his straining cock. "You're so good, so greedily obedient for me. I can reward your loyalty. I'll make you enough." 

He looks up, promises on her lips and gets back to sucking, his own dick leaking between his legs.

* * *

**22.**

She has no use for a name. A name is only a word that someone else calls you: she has no word that she is known by, no one to call her by any name. She only has a hunger, more a part of her than anything else that she has ever known. When the girl asks her name, she only knows what the priestesses called her kind. She only knows what she _is_.

“Lamia,” she says. “My name is Lamia.”

She’s killed hundreds of men. Her appetite is never sated; it only waxes and wanes. The villagers she killed were thin and tasteless, the bandits and traders even more so. The ones who save her, though, they’re different from the others. They are full of strength and energy, irresistible to her. 

One of them has magic. His touch burns like fire, enough to make her scream. She only takes one look into his eyes to know that he would kill her if he could. She should flee, but her hunger for the others – the knights – is stronger than her fear. She bides her time instead, knowing that she’ll have him and the girl in the end. 

That night, she sits underneath a tree, shrouded in darkness. She is hungry, and it is easy for her to cry. Percival, the strong one, comes to her. She has learned their names, something she has never bothered to do before. It seems a fair trade: giving hers and learning theirs. 

“Don’t worry. No harm can come to you now,” Percival says.

That is true enough. As she closes the embrace, she touches her lips to his. It’s different this time: he tastes of passion. It awakens a hunger in her of a different kind. He gazes at her with something in his eyes, something she doesn’t have a name for, something her charms cannot touch. She kisses him again, and his mouth opens to hers, responding with a simple, eager joy. She touches his face, and he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t cower away from her, even without her enchantments. Her hands are wild, feeling his strong body against hers. She wants to keep it there.

She pushes him down with an arm, and his eyes widen at her strength. No doubt he thinks her just a girl, as they all do, but she is not just a girl. She is a Lamia. And tonight she wants more than this man’s life to sate her appetite. 

She undoes his belt. He watches her with his mouth parted, his eyes reverent. She uses her hand to coax him to hardness, feeling his cock jump and leap eagerly into her palm. She knows the art of teasing, using the feather-light touches from her fingertips edged with the barest of scratches from her fingernails to leave him groaning. When he is hard and ready for her, she lifts up her skirt and slides down onto him with ease. 

Her breath catches as he fills her, hot and thick. She flexes her hips, matching the rhythm to his breathing, moving to the rise and fall of his chest. He places his large hands on her hips, anchoring her to him as if he never wants to be apart from her. She moans, and for once it’s not for show. She feels the change in her eyes as she takes him in deep, deep, deeper. She hisses, her skin rippling, a few scales breaking through, but she won’t change, not yet. He touches her in her halfway state with no fear in his eyes, and she wonders what, if anything, he does fear. 

She comes, crying out, not from pain, not from deceit, but from pleasure, a rush that sets all of her body aglow. 

“Lamia,” Percival says, and she feel him come, pulsing deep inside her. For once, she wishes that she had a true name, one she could hear him say aloud and mean _her_.

* * *

**23.**

George was unquestionably the best manservant in all of Camelot. He didn't have to be arrogant to believe that; the only other candidates were Morris (a masochistic little thing, constantly idling in hopes of punishment) and Merlin (a _brat_ , defiant, who delighted in his own sorry ineptitude).

In contrast, George was the pinnacle of manservanthood. He took pride in service, and did not strive for praise, but rather, perfection. For years he had faithfully served the King, until the lamentable onset of his illness—then the Prince had discarded him like so much dishwater, leaving the delicate health of the King in the hands of Merlin (ugh) and Guinevere (passable, but ultimately inferior to George).

And this explained his current predicament: unemployed, crouching in a back alley with Morris in the lower town.

"You say you've found new work?" George asked, sullen. "What's it then?"

"You'll see," Morris said. "Come on. Not that you'd be any good, but maybe you could clean the rooms or something."

George followed Morris through the back door of the mysterious establishment, wondering how a life of _cleaning the rooms or something_ could ever compare to his previous position. But upon entering the main space he stopped wondering anything—except, perhaps, whether men really could bend quite... so... far...

"I've got an appointment now actually," Morris said, apparently oblivious to the appalling display surrounding them. "There's nothing like a bare-arsed spanking before a good fuck, and you can't really get either of those employed in the castle. I bet one or the other would loosen you up. Though if you'd rather not, Sally's at the front. She's been looking for some help."

George wondered what kind of help Morris meant exactly—images of himself on his knees under a strange woman's skirt floated distressingly behind his eyelids—but found with relief that Sarah really was just looking for a second pair of hands to help keep the brothel clean.

( _Brothel_ , George thought. _A brothel!_ )

Unlike his work at the castle, there was not to be any dressing or undressing of other persons—Morris and his coworkers were in charge of that sort of thing. There were a lot more mysterious fluids to be scrubbed off of floors and walls and out of sheets. And of course, there was a lot more sex.

George had never much been interested in... intercourse. It all seemed a bit messy and unnecessary to him, inefficient. Why, George could sweep three floors to spotlessness in the time it took for the average man to jerk off. But Morris... well, Morris seemed to be in his element here.

"Slut," a tall man affectionately told Morris, bent over his lap in the lounge (such as it was). Three of his fingers were currently somewhere that George felt fingers should not generally go. 

The man did something with his hand that made Morris sigh and twist, eyes fluttering open—and landing on George, sweeping nearby. (Sweeping the same patch of floor in the corner for far too long, actually. And possibly watching. Erm.)

"Another finger, sir?" Morris asked, his gaze not lifting from George. "Please."

George hastily retreated.

It was not that night, but the next night that Morris cornered him. In the wee hours when Morris and the others were just bedding down, George was turning under his sheets, just about to rise.

"You," Morris said, straddling George's hips, trousers undone, "have some serious pent-up... _something_."

George opened his eyes. "I'm fine," he said, but for some reason couldn't stop staring at the brown mess of hair peeking out of Morris's open laces, or at the soft pink cock there, just starting to rise again.

"You want something," Morris said, reaching in and pulling out his—his erection.

"Oh, I—" George said, pulling the blanket up his chest, but he was fascinated and couldn't quite look away. "No—I don't think I really do."

"Alright," Morris said amicably, but continued stroking himself. "Don't move."

It was an order. A sound tumbled out of George's mouth quite independent of his own volition. He didn't move—was in fact perfectly still, on his back, watching as Morris touched himself faster, and faster, and—then—

Hot droplets everywhere, on the blanket and the floor and a little way up George's neck.

"Good," Morris said.

George's breath hitched. He could hear the next words on the tip of Morris's tongue and wanted them desperately, wanted them more than anything.

"Now," Morris murmured, "clean it up."


	5. Group B (clean)

**24.**

"I would steal the stars right out of the night sky for you."

Isolde laughs softly at Tristan's whispered declaration, untangling from their embrace as she sits up beside him. The dying embers from the campfire outside the caravan’s tent light her up from behind as she straddles him, but even as shadows dance across her unabashedly naked form, he knows she's beautiful.

She slowly grinds against his groin; she’s still wet and warm within from their earlier coupling, and his body soon begins to reawaken under her ministrations. It's like he's a hibernating animal, stumbling blindly out of a cave after the long, hard months of winter, and she is his own personal essence of spring.

"I see someone is feeling sentimental tonight," she says, her tone dripping as sweet as golden honey the color of her hair. "What need would I have for stars?"

He reaches up, ensnaring a strand of hair that has escaped her braid between two of his callused fingers. "I would use them to adorn you, to dress you in finery greater than any queen's. But then everyone would know what I already do."

A sigh escapes her lips as she finally slides down on his hardened length, taking him completely in her heart, her soul. "Hm?" she murmurs, winking at him saucily as she begins to move and gyrate, never one to let him set the pace in any of their adventures. "And what's that?"

He grips her sides firmly, as if his hands were made to slot into that delicate dip above her hip bone. He starts to thrust upwards, not willing to let her do all the work, even if they both know she's more then capable. It's why they're such a perfect pair. "That they would look like dull lumps of glass next to you, because you would outshine any star."

“Best to leave them in the sky then, for all travelers and lovers alike to enjoy,” she says, laughing again. This time, the sound is low and breathy, transforming into a pleasured moan as the speed of their rutting increases. Her head hangs forward as she braces her hands against his chest, her ample breasts bouncing in time with the eager canting of her hips. He drags one of his own hands up her chest and cups a pebbled nipple in the cusp of his roughened palm, and she keens at the jolt of electricity that ripples through them both.

“Besides,” she gasps out, still giving him that self-assured grin as he works at undoing her defenses before he will build them back up again, “I think it’s more of the challenge you’re really after.”

With one fluid movement, he flips her onto the sweat-drenched furs that make up their travel bedding, pushing into her warmth forcefully one more time before white hot light bursts in front of his vision and he fills her with his seed. She clings to him throughout her own climax, fingernails scrambling down the slippery expanse of his back, marking him with evidence of her pleasure as she cries out his name.

Afterwards, as they remain intertwined, shuddering and reluctant to part, he places a quick kiss to her temple. “Why would I need a challenge when I have you?”

“That’s right, you do,” she whispers, placing a hand against his cheek as the constellations in her eyes wash over him with their heavenly glow. “Partners for life, remember?”

* * *

**25.**

The world usually seems to come at her in waves that trip her up, but her sword is a steadying weight in her hand, the missing element to her balance, and she wipes the smirk from her opponent’s face.

 _Thunk thunk thunk_ goes her heart, dizzy, but Elena breathes in deep and stands up straight, as she was taught to, and can’t control the exhilarated grin that stretches her face.

She’s won the first round for her lady; only five more to go.

*

‘You’re a silly girl,’ Queen Vivian is fond of saying. There’s only two things Elena’s ever been good at: wielding a sword and riding a horse; she does both with abandon, and ignores those who snicker behind her back. 

*

The first time she met the queen, two weeks after the old king’s death, Elena bent her head, overwhelmed, embarrassed. The second, third and fourth time, she only barely clung onto her position, wrapping angry protests in stutters, overbalancing on a bow, and on one memorable occasion, slapping the queen’s back. Apparently, this was not considered a friendly move.

She spent months waiting for the queen to make good on her threats to strip her of her knighthood. The moment never came.

*

Sometimes, she wonders if she’s the only one who sees the cracks; blunders into them. She wondered it while the wine the queen threw at her soaked steadily into the queen’s own robes, Elena’s arms wrapped around her while she sobbed out her grief for the man who bequeathed her the thankless task of ruling the country; she wondered it when the queen snapped at her to help with her dress, and Elena somehow ended up with her head between soft thighs, the queen recovering from her surprise admirably with a ‘Well, what are you waiting for? Don’t you understand anything, you – oh.’

She’s long since learned that Vivian’s words like to twist and coil around their meaning, that you have to find the spaces in between and curl into them to understand.

Sometimes, she wonders if she’s the only one who knows that. 

Sometimes, she doesn’t mind.

*

Vivian is irritable, proud, clever and so lively it’s impossible to be bored even for a second in her presence. 

She’s also very demanding. ‘No, _no_ , not like that, what are you doing – ’ she’ll snap at Elena, impatient, and to nobody’s surprise, there’s not an awful lot Elena manages to get right. 

Elena would feel more horrible about this if it didn’t end with her moaning desperately into the sheets, inhaling Vivian’s smell, while Vivian shows her how it’s done. If Elena has the unfortunate habit of falling off the bed at least twice every time they use it, well. It just makes Vivian more determined to pin her in place, and Elena loves to feel the weight of Vivian on top of her.

She tries hard to be gentle with Vivian; lets Vivian not be gentle with her.

One of the councillors will say, ‘With all due respect, your highness’ – except not really, the curl of his lip says, ‘your father would have – ’ and Vivian’s lips will say, ‘If you think I’m flattered by your mistaking me for my father, you are sorely mistaken indeed,’ and Elena will laugh. 

And after, Vivian will push her down on the council table, where anyone can walk in on them, hold her in place by her hair, suck on her nipples through the tunic until she’s moaning loud enough for everyone to hear, rutting against her until Elena’s twisting up, the wet fabric rubbing over the sensitive peaks of her breasts with every shift, and – 

‘Really, aren’t you knights supposed to be all about _control_ ’, except Vivian will be panting, too, her lovely face lively with a hectic flush, and Elena memorises the look, every time, just in case she never gets to see it again.

Sometimes, Vivian will tie her up with her scarves and bite Elena with her sharp little teeth, the marks lasting for days.

Sometimes, lately, she’ll let Elena sleep in her bed, too.

*

‘You silly girl,’ Vivian says after the fourth round of the tournament, her fingers trembling a little as she tends the cut on Elena’s arm.

Elena smiles, flush with another victory. ‘It’s just a scratch.’

The twist of Vivian’s mouth says otherwise, but she just scowls, and says, ‘Don’t let me down.’

Elena gets back onto the field, smiles as she touches the brightly coloured scrap of cloth Vivian tied around her arm, and doesn’t.

* * *

**26.**

**Mary had a little lamb**

There was a noise in the taproom. She was sure she had locked the door... could it be Dagr and his goons?

Mary armed herself with her heaviest skillet and peeped out cautiously. That brown jacket, that dashing red scarf, that adorable head of dark curls... "The prince's manservant!" she cried gladly, dropping her skillet and rushing forward to seize the darling lad in a great hug and spin him about. "What brings you back to my humble tavern?"

"I- wha-?" the man sputtered and choked, and she realised that she had the wrong man.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, sir, I took you for someone else." She dropped him back on his feet and thumped his back while he coughed and stared at her, pink-cheeked. "Oooh, but you're quite the handsome one too."

"Thank you," the man said, tugged quickly at his scarf, then straightened his jacket with a brisk snap, puffing up his chest. " Call me George, good mistress. I am travelling to Camelot to take up an offer of employment in the royal household," he cleared his throat modestly, "quite possibly as the new-crowned king's manservant, even."

"How fine for you!" Mary cooed, admiring his fine posture and the healthy pink flush growing in his lovely cheeks. "I'm Mary, what brings you to my fine establishment, then?" She held out a hand for him to shake and he bowed over her fingertips like she was some sort of fine lady. She giggled and smacked the top of his head playfully, which sent him reeling back a little. "Oh, George! I'm no noble missus, no need for such silly court manners!"

"But you are a very lovely lady, Mary," George protested, shuffling his feet. "I only thought to stop for a drink and something to eat, and was sorry to see your tavern was closed, but it was worth it, to have met you here, " he said earnestly, twisting his fingers together.

The lamb should be about ready now, Mary thought, and sniffed the fine smells coming from her kitchen. Yes! She grabbed his fretful hands and pulled him right up against her, chest to bosom. "Destiny brought us together, darling George. Who are we to defy Fate when she gives me lamb and apple pie, and you, on the day of my birth?"

"Oh, Mary," George squeaked, breathless, and clasped her rounded waist. "Truly, this is a wondrous day, if it brought me to you. But is this proper?"

"You darling little man, forget proper; Destiny calls our names." She locked the door of her tavern and pulled him into the kitchen so she could take the roasting lamb from the fire, then lifted him up and laid him on the long table, his knees hanging over the edge. "Oh, I could eat you all up," she declared happily, taking in the view. She put her hand on his belly and rubbed him gently, and he purred like a blissful cat, clinging to her hand as his eyes rolled up in his head. 

Inspired, he sat up and undid his shirt so she could reach skin, and when she cut a slice of lamb and fed it to him, he caught and pulled her forward so they could share the tender bite in a hungry kiss, nipping fiercely at each other and tangling their tongues together in savoury contest until they tumbled off onto the ground. They shared the rest of the lamb that way, laughing when bits fell onto his belly or her bosom; she greedily bit the meat off him and lapped up the juices as he whimpered, and more daring, he returned the favour, pulling her dress down to reach a naughty morsel that had fallen between her fulsome breasts.

Giddy with delight, Mary opened his breeches and smashed the pie on his slim belly, and fed him fingerfuls while she cleaned up the mess with her mouth as he protested, and finally, climbed up over him, pulled up her dress and sat down on his erect cock, riding him until they both reached completion.

"Be sure to come back often, George," Mary called after him, dabbing her eyes. 

"I will, dear Mary," George promised faithfully, a catch in his throat as he turned to continue to the castle to take up the post as he had promised.

And he did. Come back often, that is. The manservant's position didn't quite work out as he had hoped, but this was better.

* * *

**27.**

**Every Inch Of You**

Elyan finds Percival sitting on the floor with his back against the bathtub. He's still naked, curled up into himself, head on his knees and hands in his hair. Elyan wonders how it's possible for such a huge man to make himself so small. He enters quietly and locks the door behind him, then sits down beside his friend, shoulders touching. He can hear the noise filtering from the kitchen below, Arthur's voice booming over the steady beat of the music, chairs scraping and the sound of laughter. 

"Are you going to tell me what the hell that was about?" Elyan asks. "I get that Arthur and Gwaine were being twats, tickling you and holding you down, and Val shouldn't have stripped your boxers off like that when you didn't want him to. But they were just messing around because you wouldn't take them off yourself... and that _was_ the forfeit."

"You wouldn't understand," Percival replies, his face still hidden. 

"So, explain it to me."

Percival lifts his head, face stricken. "Wasn't it obvious? Didn't you all have a good laugh about it?"

"To be honest, mate, the rest of them were too busy checking you hadn't broken Val's nose, and I was more worried about you. So what’s going on?"

There’s a long silence.

Percival's head drops again, and his voice is a painful rasp as he forces the words out. "My dick is really small and I hate it."

"Show me." The words are out of Elyan’s mouth before he has time to think about what he's saying. 

Percival uncurls his body slowly, avoiding Elyan’s eyes as he stretches his legs out, revealing himself. And yes, it is smaller than average, lying curled softly in the light brown hair at Percival's groin; but it mostly looks small because the rest of Percival is so ridiculously huge. 

"A girl laughed at it once," Percival whispers, cheeks flaming. "Said she was expecting me to be big all over."

Elyan feels fury rip through him, anger at that bitch of a girl for making Percival think he wasn't good enough. "It's beautiful," he says, honestly. He catches Percival's start of surprise. "What?" Elyan shrugs. "I like cock, and yours is a lovely specimen. It looks smaller than it is because you're built like a brick shithouse, so if yours _was_ in proportion you'd split people in half with it." 

Percival chuckles then, and the smile on his face makes Elyan feel brave. He reaches out, catching Percival's eye before he touches, giving him a chance to say no. Percival gasps as Elyan runs a fingertip gently from base to tip, feeling the softness of the skin. 

"Want me to suck you off?” Elyan asks, “because I'd like that. I wanna show you how much I like your cock." 

"Okay," Percival nods, blushing bright pink. 

"Stand up." The bathroom is way too cramped to manage this any other way. 

Percival stumbles unsteadily to his feet. His dick is beginning to perk up, and Elyan draws it easily into his mouth, feeling it thickening quickly as he sucks on it. It doesn’t get a lot longer, but it gets deliciously hard, and is more than enough to fill Elyan’s mouth and make him drool. Elyan’s hands come up to grip the meat of Percival’s thighs as he sucks harder, tasting pre-come as Percival’s breathing hitches.

Elyan pulls off to look, stroking Percival with his hand as he admires him. “You’re gorgeous... your cock is gorgeous,” he murmurs, nuzzling at Percival’s balls now, talking between licks. “You look like a fucking Greek god, Perce... seriously... so fucking perfect... every inch of you.” 

Percival moans and his hands flutter up to touch Elyan’s face, thumbs sweeping over his cheekbones, touching the corner of his lips as though checking that he’s real. 

“So hard for me,” Elyan licks the underside, tracing the veins with his tongue. “You could fuck me so well...” He reaches the head and Percival gasps.

“Oh, Christ... I'm gonna...”

“Yeah.” Elyan pumps Percival’s cock hard, catching the hot spurts on his tongue as Percival shudders and cries out. His legs give out and he collapses, kneeling down, hands still holding Elyan’s face. 

He wipes a stray splash of come from Elyan’s lips with a large finger and offers it to him with a shy grin. “You missed a bit.” 

“I’ll catch it all next time,” Elyan promises, kissing Percival's fingertip clean.

* * *

**28.**

Elyan couldn't help his fingers on her thigh, couldn't help her smile as he caught Gwen's lips with his own over dinner.

"The last one," she'd said, clinking glasses like she'd seen at court, and Elyan had nodded, unable to not see her as the woman with the curves and the sex, hard to see her as the girl he'd known years ago, the sister he'd known before he'd left.

She was coy now, brushing her hair past her ear, playing with the fabric over her breast, looking at him longer when she caught him staring, then letting his fingers slip down her dress. They'd been children back in the days, they could hardly pretend to be children now.

He'd never see her like that again. The thought kept running through Elyan's mind, incessantly, that naked like this, with her breasts high on her chest and her hair just above her sex, he'd never quite see her like this again. He kissed down Gwen's shoulder to her breast, to her nipples, the candle light flickering and reflecting off her skin, and knelt in front of her, hands on her thighs.

She spread for him, easy and familiar, and he leaned in until he had his mouth pressed to her lips and slickness, until he slurped like he'd not had a woman in years (and he hadn't), like he'd had no other place to be but here (and he didn't). He had nothing on Arthur's status, nothing on his hair and body, but as Gwen buried her hand in his hair and pulled him in tight until his nose was pressed to her skin and her scent and her wetness was everything he could taste and smell, he felt a little like he meant something.

She'd have her own bed with Arthur. Her own maid.

Elyan licked along her slit and pushed his tongue inside, made her spread her legs for him like she wouldn't for anyone else, not even Arthur. She leaned against the table in the kitchen, their dinner still on the plates half eaten and her skirt pulled up to her legs until she dropped it over his head, bathing him in darkness and in her scent. He flicked his tongue over her clit and thrust his fingers into her, fucking her better than anyone else, knowing better than anyone else what she liked, what she did to herself at night when she let him watch, what she wished her lovers would do when they were too busy chaisng their own pleasure. He sucked her clit between his lips and didn't let go until he straightened and came up for air from under her skirt and pushed her up on the table and the plates aside.

"He'll never have you like this," Elyan said, leaning in close to her lips as he pushed his cock into her, pushing into her wet, tight heat, near-virginal because brothers were trusted with virtue and he'd always kept it safe and to himself. "Never like this." Because he knew her like no one else, where she'd skinned her knee and where she'd sent him crying.

Arthur might be her king, and her husband come morning, but he wasn't inside her now, didn't see her eyes as he pushed in deeper, and a little deeper, until he was all the way inside her, stretching her and having her take him.

"The last one," she said, like she'd only have Arthur in his chambers, like she'd not walk down here, and hike up her dress, and bent over neat as he pulled off his chainmail and pushed into her. As if she could do without his whispers in the dead of the night, telling her stories like he'd had when they'd been children.

"The last one," she said, on a moan, fingers pale on his arm and the table as she held down, breasts catching on the rough wood with every thrust deep into her, every spurt of come. Because she'd be Arthur's tomorrow. Come deep inside her, Elyan's come, she'd become Arthur's wife and queen, and he'd look on, knowing his cock stayed dry while Arthur's took its rightful place.

"Mine tonight," Elyan whispered into her ear as he ground into her. There'd be time enough to think about tomorrow. Time enough.

* * *

**29.**

Uther is always watching. He is watching when he decrees that Merlin be awarded the high honour of serving his prince. He is watching when Arthur glances too many times across the table. And he is certainly watching when Merlin trips and Arthur’s hand is there at the small of his back to steady him.

He sees everything. The sneaking suspicions that crowd his waking mind are his undoing. Sometimes, he thinks Merlin must have magic to have ensnared his son in such a manner. Why else would Arthur be so enamored, so oblivious, so distracted? There was a time that nothing could have deterred Arthur from his path to king, but that time has come and gone. Arthur is growing into a man, and Uther will be damned if he sits idly by to watch the Pendragon name come to ruin over a servant boy.

Arthur could have Merlin on the side if he wished, but Merlin can’t ever be anything more than that.

When he confronts Arthur with this ultimatum, Arthur balks, makes excuses for his behaviour. _He’s just a servant_ and _Merlin is my friend, Father_ and every manner of deceit. Arthur’s tongue is silver as he spouts it all, and yet, Uther knows better. He only has to raise his hand once before Arthur is on his knees, pledging his allegiance to Camelot and its king. To his father.

“You will put some distance between yourself and Merlin,” Uther demands. There is no room for argument.

“Yes, Father.”

As Arthur leaves, Uther watches and is pleased.

**

Once upon a time, Uther was the head of a grand kingdom. Slowly, magic eradicated his iron grip, reducing his authority to an undignified end. For one blissful moment before death, he thinks that he knows how to fix everything. The meaning of his life comes to him in a wave of exhilaration. Enlightenment throbs through his veins.

Uther is more than happy to leave this earthly kingdom, to go on to the other worlds beyond in blissful unconsciousness, knowing that everything is as it should be.

But when Uther opens his eyes, all is not right.

**

The peace Uther thought he would receive through death is unattainable. Uther trembles beside his bed, looking down at his own cold corpse as his son gingerly presses his eyelids closed, shutting out the deadened, hollow look from his lifeless eyes. Uther screams but never utters a sound. He pounds his fists and finds they slide through the walls. He tries jumping out of the window and finds himself hovering in the sky, weightless and buoyant for the winds that glide around his form.

Trapped in this horrible distance from the rest of the world, he attends his own funeral, watches his body sink into the earth, and sees and hears things he shouldn’t. The maids talk about how glad they are. From far, far away, he hears Morgana’s laughter echoing through him in waves, her sick satisfaction calloused and unremorseful. And before him, Arthur tells Merlin they needn’t worry any longer, that when he is crowned King of Camelot, he will make the rules and things will be different.

Uther is helpless to the watching now. Helpless as Merlin sinks to his knees with a treacherous _my king, my beautiful king_ on his lips. Helpless as Merlin takes Arthur’s prick between his lips and swallows him, as Arthur grips his skull and whispers _yes, missed that, missed you_ in a chorus that would break his heart if he still had one. Helpless to the way Arthur ruts against Merlin like a common mutt and slides deep into his body, full to the hilt like he should have done to a wife, not a servant, not a man, not Merlin.

And when Merlin gently caresses his son’s body after, licks Arthur’s nipples one at a time to hardness, and plays with Arthur’s hole in turn, Uther is helpless to do anything but watch. He sees it all, the way Merlin slides his tongue into Arthur, the way Arthur is perverted by Merlin’s touch, and afterwards, the horrific confessions of _magic_ , the forgiveness in Arthur’s tone, the humble affection buried between blankets and midnight lovemaking.

It never seems to end. For Uther, the torment never will.

* * *

**30.**

"Merlin?"

Mordred looks up. "He's not here," he tells Arthur.

Arthur's head falls back against the pillow, weak and pathetic. "What happened? Where am I?"

"You're safe."

"That's not what I asked." Mordred grits his teeth; even like this, Arthur Pendragon is a pain in the arse. "Who are you?"

Mordred focuses on his work, watching the magic sizzle and spark between his fingers. "I'm the man who saved your life," he answers, contemptuous.

"Why?" Arthur asks, sitting up again and staring at Mordred's back. 

When Mordred doesn't answer him, Arthur stands up shakily. "Sit down, Pendragon," Mordred snaps without turning. "Do you want to injure yourself again?"

"I feel fine," Arthur insists, palm grounded against a wall as he examines himself. "I'm not in pain. I'm not even hurt. I just feel... dizzy."

"That's to be expected," Mordred mutters, and a small explosion goes off like fireworks in his hands.

"What are you doing?" Arthur stares over Mordred's shoulder. "Is that magic?" His voice goes from angry and offended, to thoughtful and quiet. "Merlin uses magic. He was born that way."

"Yes, he was. We're all born that way, those of us who have no choice." Mordred blows a strand of black out of his eyes.

"Where is he?" Arthur asks again, more awake now, more insistent. "The last thing I remember is the War... Merlin jumping in front of me. Morgana using magic. I'm flying back, and then... I think I hit something." He touches his head, but there's nothing there.

"I healed you."

"Thanks... I guess." Arthur sinks into the bed again, too weak to stand. "You didn't do a very good job of it, whoever you are."

"You're welcome," Mordred bites back sarcastically, and spends the rest of the day answering Arthur's mundane questions.

*

"Merlin?"

"He's not here."

"What happened? Where am I?"

"You're safe."

"That's not what I--"

"Yeah yeah, whatever, Pendragon." Mordred rolls his eyes. "Look, you were hurt – I healed you, you're safe. No, I don't know where Merlin is; no, you can't leave, you're sick; and no, I will not kill you in your sleep."

"Is that--"

"Magic, yes. Now shut up so I can concentrate."

Arthur eventually sits beside Mordred, watching him work.

"Have we met before?" he asks when Mordred blows out the serpent-green flames.

Mordred meets his eyes. "No."

*

"Merlin?"

"He's not here."

Mordred lets Arthur spout the usual spiel, answers each question on automatic. He barely even registers Arthur sitting down next to him anymore.

"I spent so many years hating magic," Arthur says, staring at Mordred as he levitates objects in the air, making them dance. "Yet, Merlin still spent a decade by my side, protecting me. Giving his life for me."

Mordred stills, but the objects continue to swoop through the room like trapped birds.

"He taught me that it's the individual who is evil, not magic," Arthur murmurs, and pushes his head between his hands.

*

Arthur lurches forward, fisting a hand in Mordred's shoulder, desperate. "You said Merlin isn't here, but where is he then? Why hasn’t he come for me?"

Mordred growls. "That is _enough_!" He shoves a palm against Arthur's forehead, mutters a spell, and Arthur falls unconscious into him.

Mordred closes his eyes, breathes in deep. Then, he manhandles Arthur into bed.

*

"I wish I'd never saved you," Mordred says as Arthur is pacing, asking why there are no windows, why there are no exits, why they are in a cave.

“I should’ve just let you die,” Mordred continues viciously, not looking at Arthur, just glaring at his handwriting, all of his research. “God knows it would make my life easier. You’re unbearable, you know that? Every fucking day is the same, _every_ day. Why can’t I just let you _die_!”

Arthur’s jaw is tight. “Why don’t you?”

Mordred remembers the light in Merlin’s eyes as they went out. “Because I promised him.”

*

“You’ll never leave, because you’re never going to stop being sick. You’re never going to remember. You’re not even going to remember this tomorrow,” Mordred tells Arthur tiredly, and when Arthur tries to fight him, Mordred puts him to sleep again.

*

“Merlin?”

Mordred turns to him with a scream in his throat.

“He’s dead, you idiot, he’s _dead_ , so stop asking me where he is, I killed him, he’s _dead_!”

*

“Merlin?”

Mordred climbs into Arthur’s lap, gazing down at those hazy, trusting eyes.

“Ssh,” he whispers, pulling down Arthur’s trousers. “I’m here, Arthur. I’m here.”

* * *

**31.**

“I shall never forgive this, Emrys. And I shall _never_ forget.”

Years passed since that day. The hate, the _hurt_ didn’t fade. The feeling he’d had staring into deep blue eyes while mind-speaking that promise never stopped pulsing through him. It burgeoned while his powers grew and he honed his control with unswerving diligence. Mordred had _loved_ Emrys, his betrayal cut deeply. He was legendary, the Druids’ messiah and though little more than a boy himself, he was to be magic’s _savior_ , not its destroyer.

After meeting him twice, he’d dreamed of the warlock every night. He’d felt a deep bond, knew they _must_ share a destiny. They were meant to be. He’d _known_ it.

Everything crumbled at their third meeting. Arthur, once his rescuer, was there to murder them all and Emrys was _with him_. Emrys tried to kill him! Dreams shattered and twisted. Emrys stayed in his head, visited his sleep and made him yearn but the pain never left; desire and vengeance merged.

Now, feeling no mercy, he gazed upon the naked warlock at his feet. Emrys didn’t _appear older_. His body had filled out. Adolescent boniness had given way to wiry muscle sheathing long limbs and rounding shoulders once too broad for his narrow frame. Remaining lean, he appeared well-muscled, lithe, _enticing_. Mordred’s cock twitched. Emrys’s face though, hadn’t _aged_. The bones were less pronounced but he almost looked younger, sweeter.

Heart-stopping eyes opened, looking at him without recognition. Mordred straddled Emrys’s waist running possessive hands down his chest, digging nails into alabaster skin, gouging bloody lines. Emrys arched beneath him hissing; Mordred hardened fully, letting Emrys feel it.

“ _Who_ are you?”

 _”I told you_ I’d _never forget, Emrys. You shouldn’t have.”_

“Mordred?”

He smirked affirmatively.

“What do you want?”

He ground his erection against Emrys’s abdomen.

_”Should think that’s obvious, even to you.”_

Eyes that never left Mordred’s dreams hazed confusion, but Emrys’s hardening length rose against Mordred’s arse. So…Emrys was aroused. He laughed, humiliation would sweeten this.

He slid down, slipping between splayed thighs. He knew when Emrys discovered the binding-spell, magic and body tightly under Mordred’s control. His thrice-damned, beautiful eyes told Mordred. He’d never learned to lie with his eyes. Mordred held his gaze while reaching down and seizing Emrys’s cullions in a clawed grip. He squeezed hard, pulling and twisting. Shimmering eyes widened and a satisfying scream tore from the long throat. Bright blues snapped shut, tears streaming down his face. Mordred toyed with him, continuing to wring whimpers and screeches from Emrys that had his own balls drawing up. It was delicious. Knowing he’d have time to play later, he released his grip; right now he had a different goal. Palming Emrys’s thighs and meeting no resistance, he spread them wide and high against a lean-muscled chest.

Craving more screams, he lined up with the tightly-furled, pink pucker he’d exposed and shoved deep inside with one sharp thrust. Emrys’s wail almost made him spill the moment he was balls-deep so he paused, adjusting to the tightest channel he’d ever breeched. Emrys began to twist and buck, biting his lip till blood ran. His agony was ambrosia. Mordred drew back, saw blood on his cock and snapped his hips forward cruelly. Finding a harsh, staccato rhythm inside the sorcerer’s beautiful body, he reveled in Emrys’s arching, twisting motions and his fists pounding the floor. Emrys’s keening sounded high and distressed but Mordred realized he was arching _into_ each thrust, twisting as Mordred bottomed out and whimpering as he withdrew. Emrys’s erection didn't flag, but his tears never stopped.

The flesh gripping him didn’t relax, didn’t yield…seemed almost to be milking him as he pounded Emrys with all his strength. Unexpectedly, Emrys contracted around him and the scalding-hot cum that suddenly erupted and splattered his entire torso was shocking. Overwhelmed, he followed helplessly seconds later. 

When Emrys wrapped his long legs around Mordred’s waist and drew him deeper inside, even as his cock shrank, he wondered who actually had control. The older man moaned and it didn’t sound despairing. Mordred jerked upright and surveyed the body wrapped around his. Blood was smeared and running down Emrys’s thighs, trailing over his chest and belly and dripping from his swollen lips, lips that were curving upwards. Lush lashes lifted and Emrys smirked at _him_ , blue eyes aglow with twisted ecstasy.

“You’ll have to be more inventive if you want revenge. It should’ve been obvious to you that I’m a masochist. After all, I’ve stayed with Arthur all these years.”

* * *

**32.**

**_Because the night..._ **

 

Elyan was wiping down the bar when he first caught the scent. It snuck through the haze of tobacco and bad cologne to lay thick, rich, and salty on his tongue. Saliva filled his mouth in a sudden rush of hunger as the crowd parted and the drummer from last weekend’s band, dressed in worn jeans and a t-shirt, strode up to the counter to order a beer. He’d been politely stalking Elyan every night since “Pulse” was hired and it was slowly driving him mad.

Someone might-- _try to take what’s **his**_ \-- disrespect his co-worker and cause a scene.

He grunted, disgusted at himself.

“Anything wrong?” Percival’s tone was genuinely concerned.

Elyan just barely resisted snapping at him. “Nothing.” He gritted out, “Long night is all.” A hum of understanding before Percival asked for another beer and continued to watch him

Closing time. The drunks stumbled out with a minimum of fuss, the owner left with the deposit for the morning, and Elyan was left to clean and lock up for the night. There was no real sound system besides what the bands or DJ’s brought so he used the clunky old antenna radio from the office that only had three stations: static, classic rock, and Jesus.

Springsteen blared defiantly from the speakers when the sound of a shoe scuffing the floor had Elyan twisting in surprise, twisting Percival’s wrist and pinning him to a nearby table. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!” He demanded. “We’re closed.”

“Sorry, just forgot something.” Was all Percival said.

Elyan sighed and released his hold so the other man could stand back up, take care of his business, and get his sweet smelling ass out of his bar. Except Percival didn’t go, hadn’t even left anything, just pulled Elyan close by the hair and almost lazily licked his way into his mouth. Took his time biting and suckling his way inside and smoothed large hands down the rough cotton of his uniform to stroke and squeeze proprietarily at his ass.

Elyan pulled away abruptly with a gasp. Blood rushed in his ears,his clothes felt uncomfortable against the heat of his skin, and his cock was tight against his zipper. His eyes dilated and the smell of the other man was heavy in his nose and on his tongue.

“What the fuck do you think you’re _doing_?”

Percival growled in answer, sounded both pleased and annoyed. “Is it that hard to figure out?”

Then Elyan was being kissed, herded back to the freshly cleaned stage, pressed down, and straddled. The rasp of a zipper was barely audible but he heard it and inhaled sharply as the scent of Percival’s arousal hit him in a wave of needy demand and that was the end of his hard won control. “Take them off.” He demanded and was obeyed.

The drummer’s thighs were slick with more than sweat and Elyan wasted no time, worked the sloppy mess open with his fingers. “So _wet_ already. I’ve seen you watching me, watching my hands. Do you like it? What I’m doing with them now?” He demanded, eyes hooded in interest. Percival groaned and ripped open Elyan’s black work slacks to pull out his cock in answer. Stroked its impressive length and teasingly worked the bulge at its base until it was finally worked it into the tight ring of his body.

Elyan flexed, thrust, and tried not to lose his mind at the feel of it. Balls uncomfortably heavy with the need to knot, he almost thought he could make it last, but then Percival had begun to ride him in earnest. The slap of flesh against flesh was distinct despite the music that still played and all it took was his broken, “ _Please_.” To have Elyan pull him down into a rough kiss as his knot pushed and swelled inside him.

It wasn’t the mindless need of heat driving them but still he wanted, needed, to take what was offered. Had to claw at Percival’s muscled back as he came and bite back everything he wanted to say, like _breed_ , _claim_ , and _mine_ in his euphoria. Every insistent rock of his hips cause Percival to growl in a higher and higher pitch as his dick twitched and spurt thickly between their bellies. They laid there on the floor with music playing in the background as they talked in low tones, their clothes utterly ruined with the culmination of their desire, and tied closely together.

* * *

**33.**

Title: Shhh it's a library 1/2

Geoffrey loves his books as if they were his children, more so since he can't stand the snotty brats; and so he is willing to _do anyt_ hing to protect them from harm's way, especially if the culprits are the crown prince and Gaius's bo **y.**

 **The crown p** rince

Geoffrey is doing his usual cleaning in the back of his library when he hears some weird noises from around the corner, peeking through the shelves he frowns as he sees the crown prince sneaking around the various shelves. Shrugging to himself he goes back to work.

A while later Geoffrey's concentration is broken by weird panting noises and soft murmurs from that section of his library, so he walks over there and freezes in place, there, in front of him is the crown prince, his breeches around his ankles and his hand is working over his erect penis while he moans his manservant's name.   
Geoffrey notes with anger that the prince is staring at one of the rarest books in his collection, he is currently looking at the image with the two young males in the middle of intercourse and his eyes are bright and dark with lust.   
Geoffrey rolls his eyes and turns around; it's the prince's business after all.

After the prince leaves and Geoffrey sees the damage to his favorite book, his eyes narrow w _ith r_ age, now it's his business.

Gaius's boy

Merlin is always coming and going into his library with various requests, usually at odd times, but this, looking for books in the middle of the night? He wonders if he should help him and decides against it, after all Merlin knows he is here and will call for help.

Half an hour later Geoffrey is worried and tired so he goes to look for young Merlin himself.

He should have known better, he thinks to himself as he stars at Merlin in the same position as his master and, Geoffrey focuses his old eyes, why yes, it is the same book, the one that Geoffrey spent all his afternoon cleaning after the prince.

When Merlin reach his completion all over the book while crying the crown prince's name Geoffrey sighs and decides that something must be done.

Shhh it's a library 2/2

The "pfshpb" –Plan For Saving His Poor Books

Geoffrey is very good at observing and so it isn't hard to notice that the crown prince is coming every day when he thinks Geoffrey is busy cleaning the back of his library.

Merlin comes at night so Geoffrey devises a sneaky plan to make sure they'll meet.

When they do meet Geoffrey thinks about giving them a bit of privacy but the accusing face of his precious, rare book swims in front of him and he stays to watch over them.  
**********************************************************************  
Merlin walks quickly into that section and hopes Geoffrey won't catch him, he has no idea how the book found its way to his bag but he is sure he didn't put it there. His hopes for meeting no one are ruined when he turns the corner and sees Arthur, looking for something in these shelves and mumbling to himself.

Merlin coughs and Arthur spins around, flushed and panting.

"Merlin!" He looks alarmed.

"Err, Sire." Merlin mumbles back and shuffles.

"What are you doing here?" Arthur's eyes are sharp. "What's in your bag?"

"Nothing." Merlin tries but Arthur is quicker and a moment later he is holding the book.

Merlin flushes from head to toes and lowers his eyes, waiting for the mocking that will surely come but never does, instead, two gentle fingers lift his head and he finds himself staring into Arthur's eyes, Arthur's dark, lust filled eyes.

"Merlin…" Arthur breaths and Merlin doesn't care about the book or Geoffrey and he crashes his mouth to Arthur's, teeth clicking and hands tearing at clothing.

"God Merlin, I've, I've wanted this for so long…" Arthur breaths against his neck as he sucks bruises on the skin.

"Me too." Merlin whispers back as his hands sneak down to unlace their breeches.

"You idiot," Arthur berates as he scratches marks down Merlin's back. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"Me?" Merlin exclaims as his hand wraps around their weeping lengths, stroking faster and faster.

"Fuck, yeah, Merlin I," Arthur comes first, messing Merlin's cloths. "I love you." Arthur pants against Merlin's neck and Merlin comes.

Geoffrey walks away with a satisfied smirk on his face; his books are safe once again.

* * *

**34.**

Merlin was Arthur’s manservant, which meant he was Elena’s servant as well, sort of. He’d been ever so nice to her since the wedding, and at first Elena supposed Arthur must have ordered him to make her feel welcome. 

“It’s from Arthur,” he said as he fastened a new necklace around her neck, “A gift.” His hands lingered on her shoulders when he was finished with the fastening, and she could see him smiling in the mirror. 

“It’s lovely.” She fingered the fine chain. Merlin beamed. He’d probably picked it out himself, and the thought made her smile too. “You can tell him I like it very much. No, that’s not – I love it, tell him I love it. Or no, don’t say anything, I’ll wear it next time I dine with him – or will he notice if I do that?”

Merlin’s fingers grazed the skin of her neck. “I’m not sure. He will if I tell him to.”

“You do that, then,” said Elena. Merlin was still standing so close, skin touching hers.

A week or so after that, Elena found him in her room, arranging wildflowers in a vase on the table. She watched him for a moment – his neck was bare, he wasn’t wearing one of his scarves, the ones Arthur hated but Elena secretly thought made him look quite dashing – then cleared her throat. “Are those from Prince Arthur?” she nodded at the flowers.

“What?” said Merlin. “No, I – they’re from me. I was in the woods today. And, well –”

Before he could go on, Elena marched over, heels of her riding boots clicking on the flagstones, took a hold of his face, and kissed him, hard.

It was awkward, because he was too tall and she couldn’t decide whether to stand on tip-toes or try to make him hunch down, but he kissed her back, hot and desperate.

“Don’t do that,” he said, half into her mouth. “Arthur will kill me if he finds out. I mean, _actually_ kill me.”

Elena drew back, hands still on his face, one brushing his ear. “I don’t see why. I started it,” she said. “And besides, it’s not as if he never dallies with servants.”

Merlin’s brow furrowed. Then he said, “Wait, you know about that?”

“I’m not stupid,” she said. “I understand. He loves her. He doesn’t love me that way, and I don’t love him either, and that’s all very well, it’s just –”

“Just what?”

“Well, I have needs too,” she finished.

Merlin was a country boy. Not as experienced as country boys were _supposed_ to be, granted, but still with no sense of etiquette or what the _proper_ way to treat a lady was in the bedroom. 

He fucked Elena the way Arthur never had, cock sliding in and out of her so smooth and wet that she could hear it, the soft wet sounds of her own body moving. He fucked her until she was writhing against the pillows, hair wild, until she _mewled_ with pleasure.

His hand was on her thigh, squeezing where her muscles were all tensed, spreading her legs further apart, then pushing in again, and again, his face all screwed up so it should have been ugly, but it wasn’t.

Something gave. She felt herself pulse – _one, two, three_ – her body no longer her own, muscles flexing and clenching of their own accord, squeezing tight around his cock, and then it was over, she was done, gasping and trembling as he stuttered and begged his way through his own orgasm around her, and she was glad she’d come first, she liked this, she liked seeing him come apart so completely and knowing she’d done that to him.

“Oh god,” he said, cock slipping out of her, softening. “I can’t believe we just did that. Arthur is going to have my _guts_ if he finds out.”

“So he doesn’t find out.” Elena curled a hand through his hair. Her body was still on fire, she was burning between the legs, it’d probably hurt in the morning but she didn’t care. “Besides, you can always just blame me, it was my idea.”

She kissed Merlin to shut him up, one of his hands cupping her breast, thumbing roughly at her nipple, and when they drew apart he laughed and pressed his lips to the bridge of her nose.

“You’re adorable,” she said, then, “let’s go again, shall we?” After all, she was a woman, and she had needs.

* * *

**35.**

Lancelot isn’t entirely sure how he ended up here with Leon spread over his desk, but he supposes it may have been inevitable. They’ve been dancing around each other for months. Not long ago, Leon had cornered him in the copy room and licked into his mouth with such enthusiasm that Lance spent the rest of the day with a hard on. 

Now that they’ve been celebrating the new important client with a champagne fountain and unnamed amounts of jelly shots, it really isn’t that surprising that Lance is pressing Leon into the desk with one hand at his back while the other is wrapped around Leon’s cock, pumping him with steady strokes. 

The actually surprising bit is Gwaine, lounging on the couch in Lance’s office, his legs spread wide as he fists himself, his eyes hooded as he looks over at them. And the even more surprising bit is how fucking hot it is to know that Gwaine is jerking himself off to the sight of Leon spread over his desk, clutching the edge of it as he grunts softly. 

“Touch his balls,” Gwaine says, suddenly, his voice low. 

Lance closes his eyes, almost embarrassed by the way his cock hardens at the sound of Gwaine giving him orders. He considers ignoring it because Gwaine is a smug bastard who always gets his way, but something about taking the orders is making his legs shake with want. 

When he reaches down and cups Leon’s balls, Gwaine and Leon groan at the same time and Lance thinks he might just come because _jesus_. 

“Use your tongue, Lance,” Gwaine says and Lance looks over at him, his eyes drawn to the way Gwaine’s hand is curling around his cock. “Lick his arsehole until he fucking comes all over your desk.”

Leon shudders under Lance’s hand, his knuckles whitening as he tightens his hold on the desk. Some voice in the back of his head says that he should feel some shame about this, but it’s drowned out by the fact that Leon is so hard under his hand that it seems like it should be painful. 

Lance swallows thickly and meets Gwaine’s eyes as he lowers himself into his chair, gripping at Leon’s hips and pulling him closer until he can press an open-mouthed kiss to the small of Leon’s back, mouthing along the swell of his arse. Leon’s breath is labored, but the moan comes from Gwaine. 

Spreading Leon’s cheeks with gentle hands, he kisses softly down the crease, his breath hot against the skin and Leon squirms under him until Lance has to grip him tighter, holding him in place as he flicks the tip of his tongue over the hole. Leon’s breath comes out in stuttering gasps and Lance presses closer, moving his tongue in slow strokes. 

“Fuck, he’s loving it, Lance,” Gwaine says, his voice choked. “You should see his face.”

Lance moans in response and Leon bucks against him with a needy whimper. His cock is pulsing almost uncomfortably when he moves a hand over to slip the tip of his thumb into the hole, licking around the edge of it to soothe the burn. Leon nearly arches off the desk, his thighs shaking with the strain. 

Gwaine gives a throaty laugh. “You’ve never had your arse licked before, have you? He’s doing it so good for you.”

“God,” Leon says through gritted teeth and Lance feels heady with all of it, ready to slam his cock into Leon until either Leon or the desk falls apart. But Gwaine had told him to lick him until he came and he feels a strange need to do as he’s been told. 

He replaces his thumb with his tongue, curling it a little as he pushes into Leon, fucking him until his jaw aches. Leon presses back into him, giving broken moans at every backward push of his hips. 

“Fuck, yeah, fuck his tongue, Leon. Shit, that’s so fucking brilliant.” Gwaine’s voice is strangled and Lance looks up, managing to catch a glimpse of Gwaine fucking up into his hand looking absolutely wrecked. 

It’s too fucking much: Leon’s hot arsehole clamping tight around him as he fucks into it, the sight of Gwaine coming apart. Lance reaches down, gripping himself tightly as Leon cries out and wraps a hand around his own cock, coming all over the desk in thick spurts. 

Lance sees Gwaine arch up into his own grip just as he comes gasping against Leon’s skin.

* * *

**36.**

"Have you heard what they've said? Of course you haven't, you're hardly awake, here, I'll read you the best of the reviews."

Lancelot sits up as Merlin climbs onto the bed and into Lancelot's lap, fully clothed and breathless with excitement. Merlin brings the weather with him, the scent of rain in his wild, dark hair and the chill of the early London morning in the folds of his greatcoat and half-tied cravat. 

"Inspired, incandescent, impossible. _Impossible_ , that's my favorite." Merlin reaches his arm out of the way while Lancelot pushes his coat off one shoulder, then shuffles the papers and letters from his left to right hand so Lancelot can push it off the other. "They're all true, though." 

"Inspired is probably the most true," Lancelot says and leans in to kiss the side of Merlin's neck. He waits for a sigh, and noses in behind Merlin's ear to inhale the scent of skin and smoke and rain. "Since the book is as much yours as it is mine." 

"Nobody cares about the frontispiece, it's your words, your poems, all brilliant." Merlin brandishes the papers in front of Lancelot before tossing them aside to flutter to the floor. "All impossibly brilliant." He rocks his hips into the cradle of Lancelot's lap and gives another sigh; he's already half-hard, his erection a warm press against Lancelot's palm. Lancelot feels himself grow hard at the contact and buries his face back in Merlin's neck to lick the rain and sweat from his skin. 

Lancelot longs for Merlin like he longs for ink and paper, like he longs for words to spool from the ink onto the paper and measure out the meter of his desire. He'd met Merlin in France, then again in Switzerland, and _The Castle and the Lake _had been written in a frenzy during their time in Lausanne. Hidden between lines and letters and scrawled into the margins of his manuscript he'd written the story of those three weeks and how Merlin had drawn half of his poems before Lancelot had even written them, how Merlin had drawn the words from him. Buried further still is the story of how their bodies moved against each other, the taste of Merlin's skin and the slide of Lancelot's hands over both their pricks, the soft moan of arousal Lancelot would give when woken by Merlin's mouth on his erection, the slickness of their bodies, moving against and unfolding around each other.__

He takes them both in hand now, pushing aside the bed linens and unbuttoning Merlin's trousers to thumb against the head of Merlin's cock. Lancelot's not even sure how awake he is yet; sleep still clings to his senses and Merlin's words seem unreal. His body is warm and solid, though, and the feel of his cock sliding against Lancelot's sums up all Lancelot wants from reality before the day starts. He strokes Merlin and strokes himself, lets warmth gather in the pit of stomach, then surges up to kiss Merlin as it uncoils through him. 

The kiss lasts longer lasts than their breath and Merlin is panting when Lancelot breaks it; he keeps his mouth and even his tongue close to Merlin's though, catching Merlin's lips against his own with every other stroke. Merlin closes his eyes, rests his forehead against Lancelot's, and tangles his fingers with the ones that close over his cock. Lancelot kisses the 'please' from Merlin's mouth before he's finished saying it and keeps his hand on Merlin until they're both sticky and sated. 

~

Later, Lancelot watches Merlin finally undress and come back to bed. "If you'd publish the other illustrations--"

"No. No, those are for you." Merlin tucks his body next to Lancelot's, half-curled, and nuzzles against his chest. "Nobody else would want to understand them." 

Half of London thinks him mad, broken by the events after the revolution in France, his art powered by opium and sleepless nights. Someday, though, Lancelot will tell another story, the one of how Merlin found him, broken and wordless and nearly insane because of it, and how Merlin bound their love and their longing to their very lives, to their words and art.

* * *

**37.**

The first meeting:

Leon and Will sat together quietly as they watched their best friends determinedly not- flirting with each at the bar, the awkward silence of their new acquaintanceship creating an uneasy atmosphere between them. Leon could feel Wills assessing gaze turns toward him, checking out his lean torso and muscled arms.

“So,” Will drawled out suggestively, “fancy a shag in the bogs?”

***

The third month:

“Do you sometimes feel as if we’re the side characters in an epic romance?” Leon asked as they watched Arthur race down the tube station, desperately searching for Merlins carriage, in parody of a romantic hero from a bygone cinematic classic.

“Oh please,” Will snorted in derision, “At best they’re a farce and at worst they’re a tragedy.”

Leon shifted closer to Will, gripping his hand tightly, as passer-byers began to pull out their phones and record Arthur making a tit of himself tapping on random train windows whilst shouting ‘Merlin’ in a fashion reminiscent of Brando in the famous ‘STELLA’ scene.

“Why would they be a tragedy?” Leon asked curiously, distracted from the drama unfolding before him.

“If we can stay together, despite your absolutely appalling taste in footie teams-“

“Oi, the Camelot knights are a great team!” Leon defended.

“-Then the tragedy is the fact that they can’t seem to get it together enough to even shag in the first place,” Will continued ignoring the interruption. 

Arthur regained their attention, obviously having found Merlin, as he attempted portray his message of eternal love through interpretive dance; his planned grand romantic speech foiled by the modern metro systems lack of unfastenable windows. 

“Definitely a farce,” Leon concluded, whipping out his phone to record the moment for prosperity (and blackmail). 

Will nodded his head in agreement.

***

The fourth month:

“You really need to leave your own toothbrush here,” Leon stated to Will over breakfast. “Sharing mine with you isn’t really hygienic.”

“You have your tongue in my mouth on near a daily basis, you tosser!”

“Just bring some of your things over, okay?”

***

The sixth month:

Will smiled as Leon moaned, spread out beneath him and tied to the bedposts with four leather cuffs. He bobbed his head to kiss Leon’s cock before paying special attention to the sensitive area right under the crown that made Leon whimper deliciously. He mapped a line down Leon’s erection with his tongue, sucking at his balls messily, devoutly examining both, one by one.

“You’re my Pet now,” Will crowed as he explored every muscle before him, “My glorious golden knight.”

Leon could only moan in reply, hoarse grunts his only vocalisation.

Will traced the leather cuff around one wrist with his tongue whilst leaning forward to scissor two lubed fingers viciously into Leon’s opening, brushing against his prostate once, twice, before he was arching off the bed in dazed ecstasy. Will brought himself over the edge, coming over Leon’s chest possessively, before undoing the cuffs and rubbing Leon’s wrists softly as they cuddled up together in exhaustion.

***

Now:

Leon was lying in a state of semi- wakefulness, when he felt the bed dip beside him, arms wrapping around his waist. The phone in Will's possession clattered to the floor forgotten as they curled around each other in an intimate embrace.

“We need new friends,” Will complained as he kissed Leon’s bare shoulder.

“I’ll start interviewing tomorrow then, shall I?” Leon said dryly, tucking himself further into his boyfriends arms, eyes closed in contentment. He felt the tension ease from his body as the day’s problems melted away.

“I can see the ad in the paper now, ‘Best Friends required. Must like gays. Merlins and Arthurs need not apply’.”

Leon snorted sleepily. “What did Merlin want?”

“Ahh, he just got back from his conference trip to find Arthur had killed their relationship plant.”

“Again? The stupid sods already replaced one without Merlin noticing!”

Will sighed heavily. “That sounds like Arthur,” he agreed. “I told Merlin to stop being such a girl and just face the fact that they should never buy a puppy but he kept going on and on about how it proves that Arthur doesn’t really ‘respect their relationship’ or some such bollocks,” Will ranted in exasperation. “I mean come on, a relationship plant? I love you Leon but if you ever buy us a relationship plant we are over.”

Leon hid his smile in Will's hair, placing a tender kiss upon his head. “And I love you,” he replied, resolving then and there to help Merlin and Arthur sort out their issues. After all, he contemplated; all epic love stories need the quirky best friends.

* * *

**38.**

The door to the gents is tucked in a shadowed corridor by a fire exit. Both stalls in the tiny loo have out of order signs dangling from the paint-chipped doors. Percival wonders if these toilets have ever had a purpose other than the current one.

He picks the second stall and kneels, waiting.

Sometimes no one comes and he kneels for hours, spending most of the time hard just from the anticipation. Those nights he goes to the gym after the bar and punches the fuck out of a leather bag until his knuckles bleed. He hates that he’s reduced to this. Hates that he stands out in a bar like a giant and discretion is impossible so he hides in here. Hates that he doesn’t know what his friends will think about him being queer and he’s too insecure to find out.

The blokes from work he goes out drinking with are just that: _blokes from work_. He barely knows them at all. So every Friday he sneaks off and waits on his knees, his eyes on an empty hole. 

Tonight he doesn’t wait long.

The lock on the stall beside him clicks and there’s a crinkle of a condom wrapper a second later. The bloke’s going to be a talker; already a low rumble fills the quiet toilet. Percival flips the button of his trousers, eager.

The dick’s long and thick, stuffing the hole. The sight of it makes Percival’s mouth water. He licks the tip like he's worshiping it. 

“God, Fuck. Someone’s there,” a strangled voice says and Percival takes in the head.

“You shouldn’t doubt me.” 

Percival freezes at the second voice. _Christ_ , there are two of them. 

“Do you like it?” It’s the second man, the one whose dick isn’t stretching Percival’s lips until they crack.

The clipped upperclass accent makes Percival gasp, choking in surprise as he recognises him as Arthur, that posh arse from Accounts who tagged along with their group tonight.

There's a dragged out, “Fuck!” And Merlin’s voice is unmistakable. 

“Some stranger’s choking on your huge cock and you love it, don’t you?” Arthur goads. There's a loud zip and the sound of a second condom wrapper crumpling.

Merlin thrusts further into Percival’s mouth, urging him on. Percival realises he hasn’t been moving. He can’t very well leave; they’d recognise him through the openings at the stall hinges. Arthur’s the sort to look. He keeps his lips wrapped around Merlin’s cock.

Percival can hear a wet smack and Arthur’s soft grunts as the thin wall separating them shakes; Merlin’s getting fucked through this, he realises.

“You’re so fucking hot like this,” Arthur moans into the next thrust. 

Percival closes his eyes to picture it: Merlin with his jeans at his thighs, his face pressed to the filthy stall as Arthur plunders him, his dick caught in the hole with an invisible mouth struggling to take his length. Prim and perfect Arthur, who always teases and mocks Merlin in meetings, says all the right things now to get Merlin off. The gentle reverence in Arthur's voice snaps Percival's control.

 

Percival’s hand is around his cock, pumping himself to Arthur’s rhythm – ashamed and jealous and so fucking turned on.

Merlin finishes first, spurting into the condom with a final thrust that has Percival wishing he’d pulled the condom off in time to let Merlin spray across his lips. 

Percival comes not long after. He’s usually quiet, terrified of somehow being recognised, but he can’t help himself, and for a minute he thinks he’s fucked up and said a name – either or both, he can’t be sure. There’s a painful silence where Percival holds his breath but then there’s a rustle of clothes. Not a word is shared between them and they’re gone.

He waits ages before he heads back to the crowded table of his work lads, slipping into a free chair. They carry on their conversation as if they hadn’t noticed he was gone. His eyes flicker around the group and his gut twists with guilt as Arthur looks up from Vivian’s flirting.

Arthur’s expression is blank as he hands Percival lip balm. “You split your lip, mate.” 

Percival stares at it, face hot. Any reply he can think of flies from his mind.

“Keep it,” Merlin says, “you might need it later.” His ears are flaring red, but his smile is blinding.

Before Percival slips it into his pocket, he sees there’s a phone number scribbled on the side.

* * *

**39.**

“Sword work is most important. Deflecting at the right time could save your life,” Arthur instructed, practicing with his Head Knight Sir Leon. 

Mordred thought magic would be easier really, but he looked closely and admired their strength and grace. True specimens of manhood indeed!

Afterwards he had a go, and although he fell within a few minutes, Arthur praised him saying, “at least you’re better than Merlin!”, which… coming to think about it, probably wasn’t much of a compliment. Though, seeing Merlin scowl had been worth it.

~

That night after the evening meal, Arthur summoned him into the Special Training Chambers. It was empty save for Merlin and some furniture. 

“Not only must we be skilled at thrusting and parrying on the field, our bodies must also be attuned,” Arthur said as a matter-of-fact, gesturing to Merlin.

“Merlin will be your subject tonight, seeing how you’re new to training.”

Merlin sulked, then sighed and started to unlace his clothes, leaving him in his underpants. Arthur tied his wrists efficiently and methodically and then jerked his underpants off in one movement.

Mordred was observing this closely, a mite confused.

“Sire, do you mean to say I am to… _take_ him?” There was really no delicate way to put this.

Arthur paused. He had been pulling at Merlin’s half-hard cock.

“No, rather. I want you to _fuck_ him, Mordred. We start with the basics at Camelot Boot Camp.”

“Oh,” Mordred replied. Iseldir hadn’t mentioned this when he’d sent him to become a knight of Camelot-cum-diplomat. 

Springing into action, he grasped the conveniently-placed bottle of sweet and poured it liberally over his hands.

It didn’t take long before he was thrusting into Merlin’s tightness, causing him to groan at the heat and the sheer feeling of magic surrounding him. 

Arthur stood beside the bed and offered prompting at times. Mordred did his best, and when he hit a particular spot in Merlin’s arse, Merlin screamed, his magic causing pleasure to flame in his veins. They came quickly, one after another, panting on the bed, the smell of sex and magic heavy and lingering in the air.

“You’re a natural, Mordred,” Arthur said, surprised, “usually Merlin’s magic gives the trainees a hard time. I think it likes you.”

“I really don’t,” Merlin said, still breathing hard from his climax.

“Sure you don’t.”

~

That night was just the start. The next day, Arthur had him doing weight endurance with metal balls. Mordred, who was used to meditating in the Druid camp, found this a much easier task than the swords. This earned him the respect of his fellow knights and much back-clapping, to his chagrin.

~

Again, Arthur summoned him to the Chambers after their meal. He had drunk quite an amount of wine at dinner, as his cup kept being re-filled every time he so much as took a sip. He should probably have used the privy before coming.

“Today’s lesson is endurance, as you’ve learned from the day’s training,” Arthur said, “I will see how long you can hold out before you have to relieve yourself.”

This time, Percival and Merlin were present. At Arthur’s instruction, Percival gently removed his breeches and began to stroke him to half-mast. He moaned. It felt wonderful, but he also needed to piss – badly. 

Mordred shuddered, struggling for control as Percival’s warm, firm fingers stroked and gripped him, tugging at the foreskin and stripping him.

He didn’t last long. 

He came hard, come splattering in thick, milky strands over Percival’s chest and then began to piss, the urine shooting out in a stream, running down his thighs and staining Percival’s night tunic. The room was silent and he stood in his shame, a small puddle forming at his feet.

“We’ll have to try this again,” Arthur said, “but do not fret. That is what training is for.”

~

The third day had him running around the castle with a bag full of rusty armour parts. It was cumbersome and tiring, but he managed to complete his rounds.

To his surprise, Arthur did not summon him that night.

Neither did he for the rest of the week.

He would have to wank to compensate, but it just wasn’t the same.

~

Right as he was about to think nightly training was over though, Arthur told him to oil himself the next night.

This time, all the knights were in attendance, grinning at him. 

It was going to be a long night.

* * *

**40.**

The final battle was like the magical Big Bang, **unstoppable force meet immovable object** , when great things were unwritten. Magic went from being concentrated points like stars in the sky to dilute like dye in the water. On that final occasion their fates were linked together untouchable by time so that Arthur was the _Once and Final King,_ Once and For All.

\--

Grudges only lasted one reincarnation as most of them can’t even remember that they were once mighty let alone who they hated. It was on his death bed that Mordred understood his life-long neighbour and nemesis was Merlin, greatest magical rivalry in history pared down to two old men arguing over who could grow bigger pumpkins. 

\--

Then he was a hat maker, slowly driving himself mad with mercury and he _swore_ that the people that danced in and out of the edges of his life were familiar. He knew the girl who tends to the gardens and the footman of his patron lady. Mordred was dead before he figured it out. 

\--

Many generations passed as his soul grew tired. Now, he was a child in Paris by the name of Hugo. He knew he was meant for something but altogether unsure of what. Together him, and his life-long companion Isabelle (Morgana returned fiery bookworm’s body) reignite the imagination of a nation. 

His soul too was alive for the first time in so long. Destiny had forgotten them but they had not forgotten it. Suddenly the mediocre resolved into adventure once more. 

\--

Lancelot made the most delicious sounds when Mordred pried him open with his fingers. These pretty little choked off whines and shuttered gulps of air like he was shocked at the sensations Mordred was pulling from him. He’d babbled so very sweetly when Mordred pulled one of his arms behind his back, shoved him face down on the bed and ate him out until he was begging to be fucked. Lancelot had been almost sobbing with it because he was dripping with Mordred’s saliva, and so ready. Mordred revelled in the way he begged; he wasn’t often he was the oldest one. Still he gave in eventually _’Please, please, please_ ’. 

Lancelot’s pale thigh flexed under Mordred’s palm, working himself on Mordred’s dick. 

“Suck it.” Mordred commanded and Lacelot groaned. 

He shoved his fingers in Lancelot’s lush mouth, hooking two in the silkiness of his inner cheek. Lancelot let out a desperate half-whine, the angle forcing his head back and his back to arch lifting his ass so that Mordred was nailing him deeper with every thrust. 

“You like that?” Mordred growled against his hair, snapping his hips and shoving himself as deeply as he could. “Tell me boy.” 

“Y-yes.” He groaned, muffled by his fingers, Lancelot’s tongue sliding so wetly against his cuticles. 

Mordred slid his hand up the inside of his thigh, digging his nails into the soft skin there and using that to pull Lancelot flush against his hips. 

“Louder.” Mordred demanded. 

Lancelot whined pathetically, as if no one had ever taken him this way. Lancelot was young still and it was entirely possible no one had. The thought was unexpectedly hot. 

“Yes.” Lancelot groaned, sloppily mouthing at his fingers. 

“Good boy.” Mordred purred. 

He kept fucking him even as Lancelot came all over himself; face a mess of saliva and sweat, sobbing through it. Mordred snarled, pressing him down into the filthy bed and riding him to his own completion. 

“What do good boys say?” Mordred mocked, tangling Lancelot’s hair between his fingers. 

“Thank you professor.” Lancelot said, blinking coyly and Mordred laughed, pulling him into a harsh kiss. 

“Tart.” He bit at Lancelot’s lips tasting the shape of his smile. 

Oh, it might have been illegal but there was something about having one of Arthur’s most prized so intimately. Or maybe it was that when Lancelot walked into his Chemistry lecture with those ironic hipster glasses and tight pants Mordred had to have him. 

-

He saw Arthur on the television, standing straight in the Queen’s shadow looking regal and bored. Lancelot shifted against his side, long limbs spread across Mordred’s bed taking up more space than anyone that size should while tapping out a report listlessly. Mordred grabbed one of his skinny ankles, tugging on it laughing while Lancelot looked at him like he was crazy. 

“It’s going to be an adventure, pet.”

* * *

**41.**

The fires of Beltane danced to the heavens and Puck smiled to himself as he wove his spell into the flames. Ale flowed freely and as the moon crawled across the sky, inhibitions melted away with clothing. 

Puck laughed merrily, unseen by mortal eyes, as he waded through the writhing bodies of the citizens of Camelot. Debauchery that Bacchus himself would have been proud of, Puck watched with greedy eyes as naked bodies slid together and joined at their most shameful core. 

His breath caught in his throat when he stumbled upon a Gordian knot of sex that made his toes curl and his pulse quicken. In the back corner of the Rising Sun, the knights of Camelot had abandoned their regimentals and were engaged in some decidedly unchivalrous behavior. 

Puck licked his lips and settled into an empty chair. The big one’s (who looked a bit slow, if Puck were honest) hands were restrained with the very cape he prided himself upon wearing, and the one who resembled Jesus was straddling his chest and feeding his cock into his mouth. 

The dark one with flawless skin and fox-like eyes sucked his fingers into his mouth and then shoved them up his bum, his eyes closed and his face lined with pleasure. Puck watched as one, two, then three fingers disappeared into the space between his crack. 

Puck licked his lips and snapped his fingers, making the pretty one with hair that had obviously been magically enhanced, forget his reflection (Honestly, Puck mused to himself, who wanks over their own image? Narcissus’ ain’t got nothin’ on that bloke.) and turn to the dark knight to replace the other’s fingers with his own. 

He watched as their lips met and their tongues tangled. The pretty one shifted their bodies so that Foxxy straddled his hips and was in position to sink down on Pretty’s somewhat unimpressive shaft. Puck laughed and clapped his hands, delighted with Pretty’s obvious compensation issues. 

Puck spared a moment to watch the knight ride the other before he turned back to Big ‘n Slow eating Jesus’ cock. Jesus’ head was thrown back and his face was a picture of perfect agony. As he thrust his hips forward to feed his cock deeper down Big’s throat, he reached back and worked Big’s cock slowly, expertly with his hand. 

A door slamming against the wall distracted Puck from the bodies before him. 

“Who are you and what have you done?”

Puck groaned theatrically and looked at the intruding party pooper. He was tall, reedy, and had ears that were large enough to make the man take flight were they to start flapping. 

“Ugh! Don’t be tedious.” Puck said, motioning to the room at large. “A little Beltane fun, nothing more.” 

“You can’t be allowed to--!”

“Merlin, who are you talking to?” 

Puck’s clapped his hands with glee when a second figure stood at the threshold of the Rising Sun, adding a newer, fun element to the game. The king himself had arrived, and looked at the tall, thin man with exasperation and ire until Puck snapped his fingers and wove his spell a little deeper. Suddenly the king’s eyes glazed over and he noticed the writing mass of knights fucking in the corner of the inn. He licked his lips, promptly forgot Ears, and moved over to them.

Puck couldn’t help but laugh as the king stripped off his kit and sat down straight on top of Big ‘n Slow’s cock. 

Ears pulled frantically at his hair. “Arthur!” He turned to Puck and narrowed his eyes. “Make this stop.” 

Ugh. Ears was a total wet blanket. “Boring!” Puck jumped down from the stool he had been occupying and danced around the room. Morals were so tiresome, and Ears seemed to have them in spades. He snapped his fingers and sent Ears, well, he wasn’t quite sure where he sent Ears. Tatiana could deal with that later. 

Alone again, Puck satisfactorily brushed his hands together and turned back to the knights. He gave them one last, long, lingering glance before he left the tavern to seek other sights before the night was over. 

Behind him, the flames of Beltane curled and crackled, bigger and brighter than ever before. Puck laughed and danced through the night.

* * *

**42.**

Leon finds Elyan in the forge, in the middle of a drift of chainmail.

'You know, we have armourers to do this,' Leon says, sitting next to him.

Elyan grins. 'Well, I like doing it. It's relaxing. And I do it better.' He cocks his head. 'Were you looking for me?'

Leon still hasn't managed to confess to Elyan why he seeks him like this, although God knows the knight has asked enough times. He tries to say something now, and can't get the words out. Elyan sees that, and puts his pliers aside and climbs into Leon's lap without any further ado. 'You found me,' he says, instead of another question.

Throat dry, Leon whispers, 'Will you take me to bed?'

***

Elyan is beautiful naked in candlelight the way steel is beautiful in a fire, glowing and gold-edged. They're tangled together in the middle of his bed, and he's running his hands over Leon's body like he's still checking chainmail. 

Leon clears his throat, gone hoarse with anticipation, and says 'Please -'

Elyan knows what he wants. He made these for Leon, after all. They clink, link after link, as he draws them out from under the bed, and they rattle as he attaches them to the bedposts. Clicking them shut around Leon's wrists, however, is silent - the manacles are padded inside with fur. The only sound then is the moan Leon cannot stifle before it escapes. 

Elyan pushes Leon down into the blankets, one hand flat on his chest, and Leon goes into it, letting his arms stretch above his head, chained to the solid oak bed.

'Is this all right?' Elyan asks, concerned.

'It's fine,' says Leon, already wanting more than he can say. Elyan drags his hand down over Leon's chest and tweaks a nipple gently, watching the way Leon's breath hitches with calm assessment in his dark eyes, tweaks harder to get out a gasp, then _pinches_ , and Leon cannot help the moan that rips its way out. 'God, Elyan, please -' he stutters, and Elyan nods, kisses him gently on the mouth. 

'Anything you want,' he says. ' _Anything_.' 

His teeth find the soft place above Leon's collarbone, one hand twists white-hot at Leon's nipple, and his other hand takes hold of Leon's cock, soft pleasure to run under the careful, precise pain he's causing. 

Leon bucks, Leon twists, writhes, shoves into every pressure-point Elyan has on him, and Elyan's cock drags wet lines against his thigh, but the cold iron doesn't Leon go and neither does Elyan himself, aligning them so they can rut against each other and taking his wet hand further down. 

'Let me in,' he mutters into the abused skin of Leon's neck, and Leon's legs fall open like a tavern whore's. 

Elyan's fingers are glorious, slicked with Leon's mess, as he carefully teases Leon open. It isn't much wetness to ease with, but they had each other in the stables this morning, and in Leon's bed last night, and Leon is good at controlling his body.

Elyan drags his other hand down from Leon's nipple to his thigh, his nails scoring lines along the way. 'Can you take more?' he asks. 'Another?'

Four fingers presses hard against Leon's defenses. He starts to lose awareness of anything but the heat inside him. When the head of Elyan's cock, thicker and wetter than fingers, nudges against him, Leon pushes to meet it; begging, desperate.

'How do you want this?' Elyan asks through gritted teeth when he's inside Leon, as if he doesn't know. 

It's effort for Leon just to make the one word. 'Hard.'

They come quickly, Leon first, blindingly, achingly, his fluids hot as they touch the red places Elyan's marked him, and Elyan afterwards, arched hard over Leon's body, his eyes burning with something more than need.

***

'Why do you let me do this to you?' Elyan asks, running the cool washcloth over the places he hurt. 

Leon is still burnt out and swimming in the peace that this brings him. It takes him a moment to register the question, another to find the answer where it's floating in his mind. 'Because you make such beautiful things,' he says.

* * *

**43.**

Slowly, the knight gathered the shattered atoms of his being, calling them, reuniting them grain by grain, until he stood whole again.

Not whole.

Incomplete.

He knelt before the Seelie Court, confessed the failure of his task. Confessed the longing, the emptiness, the futility of his existence,. He knelt, and he wept with the loss.

In time, the Sidhe Elder bid his knight rise, and charged him with a new task. Make himself whole.

***

Gaius examined his frail patient carefully, lifting each dull eyelid in turn, peering into her mouth, pinching the pale beds of her nails. He smelled her breath, rolled a lock of limp hair between his fingers, pressed the hollow cavern of her belly. “Tell me again, Princess, of your ailment.”

Princess Elena drew in a weak breath, voice wavering before the ring of concerned faces surrounding her. “It… began during our last visit to Camelot. I was fine until... something changed. At first it was freeing, a great burden lifted from my shoulders. But now... food is dust in my mouth, it no longer nourishes me, and wine does not quench my thirst. Sleep is long in coming, and brings no rest. Music sounds flat. Colours are duller – the sun itself is dimmer. It’s as if a shadow clouds my world.”

Gaius exchanged a sharp glance with Merlin, then bid the Princess continue.

“'Tis not merely senses. I am hollow, an empty shell. My “self”, the Elena that I have always been – she is gone, lost. I hear her call for me – ‘Elena, Elena’ – but seek as I might, I cannot find her. I cannot find myself.” The princess buried her face in frail hands, wept dry tears that would not flow.

“Can you help her?” demanded the King. “Can you help my Elena?”

“We shall see,” replied Gaius. He took the girl’s hands in his, whispering, “Oh, my dear girl. We have done you a grave injustice.”

***

Merlin stood before the Gates of Avalon, scepter raised. As he spoke ancient words, time slowed - leaves ceased their flutter, water stilled. “I can give you only a few moments, Princess," the young man warned urgently. "You MUST return when I call, or you will be trapped Underhill, in the realm of the Sidhe..”

Eyes fixed on the clearing before her, Elena nodded, and stepped forward.

The mists parted to reveal a vibrant landscape, lush and mystical as any Elena had seen. Gnarled roots and twining branches framed the crystal waters of a small lake. Mossy rocks peeked from a small waterfall cascading as backdrop to the song of birds and frogs. Flowers in every colour wove through branches of greenery. Throughout it all, tiny sparks of light twinkled and danced. She could feel the land breathing, the very heart of the earth beating beneath her feet.

A man waited for her, armor gleaming silver, helm of brightest gold. Silken hair of white-platinum framed a face of unearthly beauty. His pale eyes held such unbridled longing that she gasped, heat and need coiling within her. As in a dream, she fell into his arms, gown and armor melting away like snow.

They lay on a bank of emerald grass dotted with jewels of bright flowers. His lips traced her skin, left molten lava in their wake. Where he touched her, she came alive, body singing into his touch. When he slipped between her thighs, she opened to him in welcome – seeking, needing. The pain of joining was inconsequential, as waves of pleasure and arousal and deepest need washed over her.

 _Elena._ She heard a voice call in the far distance.

But she was so close - so close to finding the elusive something she sought. She ground up desperately against the knight, fingers digging into his shoulders as she urged him closer, deeper. She needed… she wanted…

 _Come, Elena._ The voice was powerful, insistent. But something was uncoiling within her, releasing slowly outward to encompass her, pulling him inwards – something bright, something ecstatic. She was so CLOSE…

_Elena. You must return. The gates are closing._

The knight pulled her tight, held her still as her soul shattered and reformed inside her, bursting in wave after wave of purest bliss. 

_Elena!_ The anguish of the call was faint, fading… gone.

Elena gazed up at her knight – tears streamed down both faces. 

“My soul.”

“My heart”

Whole.

* * *

**44.**

Balinor gazed at Hunith from behind the curtain separating their small hut in two. Hunith's full belly was contrasted attractively by the moonlight filtering through the open window. The slight summer breeze had made her swell with sensitive gooseflesh and Balinor shivered in sympathy when the breeze reached him.

"You're beautiful," Balinor said as he crept closer to the bed. When he finally reached it, he clasped Hunith's hand in his own and bent down for a kiss. His free hand instinctively curled around her belly and his thumb stroked a slow rhythm that won him a kick from the babe within. Hunith's pale skin was flushed from the attention and she squirmed on the bed.

"Soon, we'll have not time for these things," Hunith said before she rolled on to her side and made room for Balinor. His hand was tugged on brusquely and he had to stop himself from falling on top of Hunith. Hunith's eyes shone with mirth.

"Best take advantage of the time we do have, then," Balinor said.

Hunith tugged on his hand again and Balinor finally acquiesced and climbed onto the bed. He ran his fingers lightly over Hunith's chest and hips before he cupped her swelling breasts. His thumbs swiped over the hardening nipples and came away with moisture.

"You're leaking," Balinor said and a flash of surprised arousal surged through his body.

"Not just there," Hunith said as she grasped one of Balinor's hands and put it between her slick thighs. Balinor smiled at Hunith and cupped her pubic mound. He squeezed slightly and was rewarded with Hunith thrusting her hips toward him. Balinor pulled away slightly and urged Hunith to lie on her back.

"May I?" Balinor asked when he was hovering over Hunith. His mouth was poised over Hunith's breast and left no confusion as to what he was asking.

"Yes," Hunith said. Her breathing was slowly becoming unsteady. She gasped and arched up into Balinor's mouth as he lapped at her swollen breast. She moaned when he bit down, sucked, and used his free hand to squeeze her breast.

Balinor's mouth was flooded with a slightly bitter substance. It wasn't the true milk that would come after birth, but Balinor sucked like it was giving him the sustenance he needed to survive. He pulled away to suck in some needed air and trailed his hand between Hunith's legs. His hand moved easily against her slick skin and he rubbed his fingers up against her. He made her moan as he rubbed against her clitoris with his thumb and brushed his fingers against her entrance.

He teased her and moved his fingers more firmly against her opening. He only let the smallest bit of his fingers push inside and matched his stroking to the throbbing he felt on his thumb.

"Please," Hunith begged and Balinor finally let two fingers slip inside. He pushed them in and out of her body and Hunith squeezed around them. He knew it wasn't enough for her, though. He slowed his rhythm and pulled away from her.

"Wait. Climb on top of me," Balinor said after he'd settled himself up against the wall. 

Hunith shifted to straddle Balinor's hips but the extra weight around her middle shifted her slightly and she ended straddling his thighs.

Balinor laughed as he slid further down the wall and lined them up better. He pushed his clean hand through Hunith's hair and pulled her down to a kiss. Hunith indulged him for a minute before she pulled away.

"I want," Hunith said and she didn't complete her sentence. She wrapped her hand around Balinor's leaking cock and guided it inside her, sinking down until their pelvises met. She rocked forward on his cock and moaned.

"You're perfect. Lean forward," Balinor said as he grasped Hunith's hips with both hands. He supported her and didn't hinder her movements.

Hunith leaned forward again and Balinor wrapped one of his hands around the breast he'd neglected earlier. He squeezed and lapped up the liquid that beaded there.

"Balinor!" Hunith exclaimed as she moved her hips up and down on his cock. 

Balinor felt her squeeze her muscles around him knowingly at first, but her rhythm soon faltered and Hunith was coming. Balinor felt her muscles convulse around his cock haphazardly and thrust up a few more times before he surrendered to his orgasm.

Hunith collapsed against Balinor's shoulder and he ran calming hands down her back.

"The baby will be perfect," Balinor assured as he rubbed his hands over Hunith's belly and felt the kicks there, "Already a feisty babe, see?"

* * *

**45.**

It was kind of Gwen to open her flat to him, saving him from having to get a hotel room on top of the tux, the plane ticket and the wedding gift. Not to mention the no doubt multiple bar tabs, if he knows his friends at all. Gwen lets him in with a smile and a hug. 

“Percy, this is my brother, Elyan.” Gwen says. “El, this is Gwaine’s friend, Percival.”

Elyan’s smile is brilliant, his handshake warm. “Pleasure,” Percival manages. 

“Oh, it’s all mine, I’m sure.” Elyan returns, and Percival will swear he imagines the wink.

+++

Percival shifts, sinking further into the plush cushions of Gwen’s couch. Just as he’s settled, his bladder protests. Percival sighs and hails himself up to go to the bathroom. As he’s returning down the hall, he hears a noise that sounds like distress from the room across the hall. Percival raises a hand to knock on Elyan’s (slightly ajar) door when he hears the noise again.

It’s definitely not distress.

The bed is just visible through the crack in the door. Elyan is lying on top of the covers, bare as the day he was born, and he’s...

Percival’s cock stirs in his pants, and his face flames. A small part of his brain tells him he shouldn’t be watching this. But really, it’s Elyan’s fault for not checking to see if the door was fully shut before having a wank while there’s guests in the flat. 

Percival holds his breath, presses closer to the door, and Elyan doesn’t notice the door move just a fraction. Thank god it didn’t squeak. 

Elyan’s hand strokes languidly over his cock, shining with lube in the dim light from the open window. The other runs over his chest, scratching lightly, tugging at his nipples. Elyan moans again and Percival presses the heel of his hand to his dick. He watches, rapt, as Elyan’s stomach quivers, and he plants his heels on the mattress and rolls his hips into his hand. Percival’s own hand starts to move over his dick. 

_No, absolutely not._ The voice says again. _That is a terrible idea._

Whatever, he’s got time to make an escape. Percival reaches inside his pants, stomach churning, holding his breath so as to not make any noise. The cloth is constricting, but Percival does his best to match Elyan’s rythmn, captivated by the movement of his hips, the way his hand squeezes every third stroke or so. 

And the noises, holy shit. Percival could get off just by listening to Elyan’s hitching breaths and low moans. But as it is, it’s even better to watch him, the movement of his hips and hands. Elyan speeds up, and Percival follows, pleasure building in time to the rise in Elyan’s breathing, the pitch of the noises he’s making. 

Elyan goes still, and his hips buck once, twice as he starts to come over his hand, mouth open in a silent scream. 

Percival’s orgasm hits like a punch to the gut, and he grabs the door frame for support as he comes in his pants. On the bed, Elyan is swiping a facecloth over his chest and dick, and then rolls over and goes to sleep. 

Percival turns and heads back to the bathroom.

* * *

**46.**

_Pop! Pop!_

Below, so distant they could hardly be heard under the roar of the small plane's engines, tiny bursts of color sprang up in the night and faded. Here, a red one opened like a flower. There, green shivered to gold before tumbling earthward again, fading.

Alice kneeled on her seat and pressed her nose to the thick window. She could see a dozen towns beneath them, colors springing up from each in unique patterns and styles. A blue and white finale began over Mercia, while Gwynned burst into a fountain of flame.

"Beautiful," she breathed.

In the pilot's seat of the tiny aircraft, Merlin glanced back at her and smiled mischievously. "Hang on," he said, swinging them into a wide, slow arc that tipped the wing in front of her down, pressing her even tighter to the glass. The land below her was a sea of darkness, broken only by the bright colors. She laughed like a child.

_BANG!_

She felt more than saw the immense arc of lightning that leapt from the cloud beside them to a distant cloud, several miles away. A flash of light engulfed them simultaneously with the sound that seemed to grab the tiny aircraft and shake it like a dog with a bone. Merlin's fingers went white on the controls. He leveled them out quickly, hunching forward.

After that, the heat lightning took over, drowning out the show below with a display of its own. The raw power of nature flexing its muscles, joining in the celebration with a reminder of who was truly powerful here.

They landed in the dark, wind lashing at the wings, with only a faint set of lights to guide them in. Merlin did it more by feel than sight, stretching out his magic so far Alice could feel it over the storm. Trustingly, she closed her eyes and waited for him to bring them down.

The moment they had touched down and taxied into the hangar, she was up out of her seat. Merlin caught on to her urgency, unloading their bags quickly. It wasn't raining yet, but with the wind lashing the trees outside, it would be soon.

"Thank you," she said quietly, laying a hand on Merlin's arm.

"You're welcome," he chirped, lifting both their bags, seeming to understand she meant more than just carrying her duffel.

A short walk over the hill and they were in Ealdor. The fireworks were already over here, but she could still smell powder and magic in the air, even as the wind whipped it away. The Smiths nodded greetings from their front porch. Hunith waved from the window above the grocery, and Merlin blew her a kiss.

And there. Their own house, coming into view. Freya came running out, and Merlin dropped both bags to pick her up and twirl her around, setting her down on her toes again before kissing her soundly. Alice smiled, moving past them at a more sedate pace to stop at the bottom step and take Gaius's hand, leaning into him.

"I'm glad you're home," he murmured, worry and pride mixed in his gravel voice.

It finally began to rain, chasing them all inside.

***

Hours later, she lay in their bed with her cheek on Gaius's shoulder, listening to the children go a second round through the thin walls and trying not to laugh.

Gaius smiled, then shadows chased it from his face. "The negotiations?"

"As well as can be expected. With the Saxons still pressing, Camelot is more willing to court than coerce."

He looked away, pensive. "I should be-"

"No, love," she told him firmly, as the bed in the next room slammed into the wall in time with Freya's cries. "You should be here, helping build Ealdor. The influence you once had with Uther is gone."

"I don't regret it." He spoke low, under Merlin's desperate whines. "I don't regret following you, even if I might have helped more by staying."

Ah, her beautiful, guilt-ridden husband. Revolution never suited him, and yet a revolutionary he had become. Three dozen states stood independent in the wake of the Great War between Camelot and the Saxons, urged on by the rhetoric of freedom from Camelot's own Prince Heir. And there in the background was Gaius, advising and cajoling and forming the alliances that kept them free.

Merlin and Freya gasped their completion next door as Alice curled tighter into her husband's arms. 

"The people are celebrating," she whispered. "Tonight, let's join them."


	6. Group C (clean)

**47.**

_Arthur dragged the ice cube sensually down Merlin’s stomach, following after it with languid kisses. He relished in the way Merlin groaned against the feeling of the abrupt coldness against his warm skin, and Arthur lapped at the rivulets of water that were gathering on his body._

_“Arthur,” Merlin gasped. “Stop teasing me.”_

_Arthur chuckled against Merlin’s skin. “Oh, I haven’t even started yet,” he murmured._

“No, no, no, no, no!” Elena shouted at her computer. “No, this isn’t right at all!”

She threw her hands up dramatically as she sat frowning at the screen (more specifically, the characters on it). “Why isn’t this working?”

Elena Gawant, better known by her pen name E. Quinn, was a writer by trade, and had written a number of books thus far in her career; but her most well-known work was the _Corrosion_ series. It was about a sorcerer (Merlin) and an ex-police officer (Arthur) both on the run from the government, and they were definitely some of her favourite characters to work with.

In fact, she loved the two of them dearly, but after writing their story for five years now it was time to let go. This book was to be the last, but unfortunately it was refusing to be written—she hadn’t had writer’s block of such calibre since the time her cat ran away a few years back (luckily, Freya had been found in the end).

Elena was determined to finish it though, no matter what. She owed it to herself and her readers both to give Merlin and Arthur a satisfying conclusion after everything they’d been through, and so she leaned forward once again, placing her fingers on the keyboard.

_Arthur wrapped his fingers loosely around Merlin’s cock, stroking it gently and watching Merlin slowly fall apart beneath him. The ice cube was melting in his hand, so he rubbed it gently across Merlin’s stomach once more, grinning as Merlin let out a desperate whine. He loved how receptive Merlin always was, and as a reward Arthur replaced his fingers with his mouth, allowing his free hand to travel downward, past Merlin’s balls to prod at his entrance._

_“Oh_ fuck _,” Merlin said, and Elena debated putting herself out of her misery because this wasn’t working out in the slightest._

Elena sighed and deleted the last sentence, propping her chin up on her hand as she stared dejectedly at the words. Eventually, she simply clicked on the x at the corner of the document.

_Do you want to save the changes to finalchapter?_

_No._

-

“How goes the writing, love?”

“Horribly,” Elena responded, but she still managed to smile when Mithian sat down next to her and pressed a brief kiss to her cheek.

“I’m sure you’ll manage to think of something,” Mithian said.

Elena snuggled against Mithian, resting her head on her girlfriend’s shoulder. They had met at a book signing for _Skin/Bones_ —the first book in the _Corrosion_ series—and hit it off immediately. Even years later, Mithian still remained one of her biggest fans, and was always willing to offer encouragement when it was needed. 

“Hopefully, but it doesn’t make it any easier when my dragon of an editor keeps breathing down my neck and shouting about ‘destiny’ or what have you.”

Mithian patted Elena’s leg consolingly. “How about I give you some inspiration?”

Elena’s eyebrows shot up as she caught onto the meaning of Mithian’s words, and she scrambled to her feet. “Well, if you insist,” she said eagerly, dragging Mithian toward their bedroom quickly.

-

_“Ready?”_

_“No,” Merlin said seriously._

_“Well, you don’t have a choice.”_

_Merlin couldn’t suppress a laugh. “I’m ready.”_

_“Together, then?”_

_Merlin grasped Arthur’s hand in his._

_“Together.”_

Elena closed the book with a smile. It had taken time, but _Fire/Ashes_ was finally published. It was somewhat bittersweet; Merlin and Arthur had been her favourite characters, after all, but at the same time it was nice. They’d finally gotten their own sort of ending together.

And on the bright side, it meant Elena could move onto other things; she had dedicated most of the past few years to _Corrosion_ and she was looking forward to starting something new.

Turning to her computer, she opened a blank document with a smile, already having a plan in mind for what to write.

_It was supposed to have been a simple smuggling job, but when Tristan met Isolde, he knew nothing was going to be simple ever again..._

* * *

**48.**

George was a good boy.

He had been raised in a good home by a good family and, even as a child, had known that his destiny lay in Camelot. He didn’t need prophecy to tell him this, or riddle-loving dragons. No, George knew his purpose in life because he knew _himself_ ; and what he knew was that he was born to serve.

And George was _good_ at it. Better than good. He threw himself heart and soul into his job, and his master’s each wish was considered his own, only infinitely more precious. George would go to the ends of the earth to fulfil his duty to his master. It was only when he had accomplished whatever was asked of him that he would allow himself to believe that he was a Good Servant and, as Mother had always said, a Good Boy.

And George _was_ a good boy, yes. But that is not to say that he had no weaknesses. And if he had any one weakness, it was this: he was ambitious. Not in the usual sense, no – George had no desire for riches and power and fame. All he desired was to be the Best Manservant in all of Camelot, and to serve as best as he possibly could. And there was only one household wherein the Best of the Best served: the royal house of the Camelot.

It took time, but George slowly managed to work his way up the social ladder. Higher and higher he ascended and still his star showed no signs of falling. Merchant, to noble, to lord, to baron … Each position was merely a step in his ladder of ascent and slowly but surely, he was climbing to the top.

And then it happened. His dream, the one he’d had since he was a boy of five, finally came true. 

He was made Manservant to the Prince of Camelot.

However hard George had worked, it was nothing to his efforts now. Every bruise of the knee, every burn of muscle, every bit of dirt scraped painstakingly from each corner of the Royal Bedchamber – it was all done with a furious dedication that put all of George’s previous efforts to shame. He was finally satisfied that _no one_ , let alone that ridiculously poor excuse for a manservant that his Prince’s previous man had been, could ever come close to doing what _he_ could. He was, without a doubt, the Best Manservant in all of Camelot. He would finally be recognised for his work, his efficiency, his _dedication_ ; and then he would be rewarded with the only suitable prize: a permanent position as Prince Arthur’s manservant.

Confident in his prospects, George decided to do one final check on His Highness before retiring for the night.

His first intimation that something was wrong was the noise. There were groans coming from within – harsh, painful-sounding noises that alarmed George. Fearing that his lord was sick, George carefully pushed the door open.

And stared.

There on the bed, _naked_ and _writhing_ in whorish ecstasy, was the prince’s _old_ manservant. And there, right beside him – right _on top_ of him – and equally bare was the Prince, who was jerking his hips roughly against his servant’s, grunting with each rough thrust that he made.

‘Arthur!’ the Prince’s former manservant gasped. ‘Arthur – please! Faster!’

The Prince, far from hushing the other, groaned at the sound of his words.

‘God, Merlin!’ he moaned, picking up the pace and physically _slamming_ their hips together. ‘Fuck – want you here always. In my bed. On my _cock_.’

George watched, frozen, as the two men crashed against each other almost violently, the one pushing in and the other thrusting himself back. Each grunt and moan had his stomach twisting fiercer; each slap of flesh had him tensing further and he was now coiled tighter than he had ever been in his life.

Merlin suddenly gave a loud cry and then the Prince was shoving into him even harder than before: once, twice, thrice and then he made a sound like a roar, before slumping over the other.

George swallowed, relaxing. Looking down, he knew that the front of his trousers was wet. He took a deep breath. Then, raising a trembling hand, he closed the door.

Yes, George was a good boy – most of the time – and an ambitious one.

But he was also realistic, and this day had shown him one thing:

He would never be Manservant to the Prince of Camelot.

* * *

**49.**

“It’s a lovely evening,” Mithian says. It is: the moon is full and bright, casting a glow over the grounds, and she’s enjoying walking with Lord Arthur through his estate, her arm in his.

There are a number of things she likes about Arthur - likes, not loves. His kindness, his laugh, the particular way he ducks his head when he’s embarrassed, and the solid strength of him, the steel. He’s warm against her side, a nice contrast with the evening breeze. They turn a corner, and that’s when Merlin comes bursting through the hedgerow.

"Arthur," Merlin begins, pauses. "Good evening, Lady Mithian," he says, cocking his head at her, the motion as close to a formal servant's bow as he'll probably ever come. "Arthur," he says again, more urgent, “there's an emergency. In the duck pond."

" _What_?" Arthur has a special tone of incredulity he uses just for Merlin. It's quite loud.

"An emergency," Merlin repeats. "In the duck pond."

"What _sort_ of emergency, Merlin?"

Merlin shrugs. "With the ducks."

Arthur takes his leave of Mithian with an exasperated formality, but without any real sense of regret. She should make her way back to the terrace and Arthur's other houseguests, but the hedged pathways could almost be counted as a maze, and if she takes a wrong turn, who's to blame her?

By the time Mithian arrives at the pond, everything is calm. Three ducks with ruffled feathers are floating about, occasionally squawking. Arthur and Merlin are sitting on the stone wall at the pond's edge. Arthur's trousers are neatly rolled up, while Merlin is soaked, head to toe.

They stand at her approach, and Mithian can't help the way her eyes linger on Merlin, the slimness of his torso on display with his suit plastered to him; more on display below the waist besides, the outline of things she's not yet seen on a man, things that are... interesting.

Arthur walks her back to the house. His arm is wet when he offers it to her, from where it had been draped across Merlin's back.

The next evening is less lovely. Storms roll across the sky.

The ladies retire to the parlour for bridge; the men to the gameroom, for billiards and whisky. It would defeat the purpose of Mithian’s visit for she and Arthur to separate, so they end up in his private library, sitting across a chessboard.

“You’re a worthy rival," Arthur says. Mithian imagines it’s one of the nicest things he knows to say about anyone. “Merlin’s terrible, every move is written on his face before he gets round to making it.”

Mithian can imagine it: Merlin biting his lip, frowning at some pieces, smiling at others, beaming when he’s thought of something clever, and generally driving Arthur to distraction.

“He’s been with you a long time,” Mithian says. It’s a guess, but it also isn’t, the way one ends where the other begins.

“Five years.” Arthur pauses. “Six? Forever.”

 _It will be,_ Mithian thinks, this time a prediction.

Arthur stands. At first she thinks he’s going to the drinks cabinet, but he fiddles with an object on a bookshelf, and a door suddenly swings out between the rows of books. “The best thing about this room," he says. "If I need something in the night, I can just slip down through here and get it.”

Beyond the door is a dark passageway. Mithian can barely make out the beginnings of a staircase in the shadows, one that must lead to Arthur's room. She knows this isn’t an invitation, Arthur would never be so improper, but heat flashes through her nonetheless, like lightning cutting the sky.

That he said those words at all - need, night - that he’s conjured images of his bedroom, of himself, dressed loosely in nightclothes - that can't have been an accident. Mithian smiles.

There’s a crash on the stairwell. Arthur sighs. “Come down, Merlin, I knew you were there.”

Mithian shakes her head, pressing fingertips to Arthur’s wrist. She steps inside the passageway, lightly drawing Arthur along with her, stopping when she feels Merlin on the stairs in front of her, his breathing harsh and curious in the dark.

She wonders who might find it easier to share, Merlin or Arthur. She wonders what the hard lines of Merlin might feel like, pressed along her front. About the solid weight of Arthur at her back, about his hands, what they might feel like in places other than her arm.

Mithian’s voice is steady when she asks, “Would either of you like to close the door behind us?”

* * *

**50.**

“Are you free tonight?”

Nimueh analyzes the voice: female, posh, not her typical caller. “Sweetie, you do realize I’m the girl and not the receptionist, right? I’ve got a great guy on speed dial--”

“Your ad says you’ll do either. Please, I--this was stupid.”

Normally she wouldn’t bother, she’d wait for the next john to call, but there’s something in this woman’s voice ... “Calm down, just tell me where to go. You can even tell me what to wear if you want a special treat.”

For a second, she thinks she’s lost the customer, but then there’s a shaky inhale. “Wear whatever, I don’t care. I’m at Camelot Hotel, room 318.”

“I’ll be there. Half an hour, you know the going rate.”

*

The receptionist at the hotel nods when Nimueh asks to be let up to room 318. “She said she had a friend coming. Molly Flanders, right?”

“That’s me.” She has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. Apparently the client knows her literary whores. “You need ID?”

“No, you’re fine.” Nimueh gives her a nod and heads for the elevator.

It takes a minute to get an answer when she knocks on the door, and she’s half-afraid she wasted a trip across London for a no-show before it opens, revealing a flushed blonde too gorgeous to need a hooker wrapped in an ivory satin robe. Nimueh smiles. “May I come in?”

The woman steps aside; Nimueh walks in and locks the door behind her.

The bed is rumpled, the TV is muted on uninspired porn, and with any other customer Nimueh would tease, but here she just flips off the TV and takes off her jacket. If she pushes too hard, she’ll get kicked out. “What should I call you? I’m Nim.”

“It said in the advert. I’m … it doesn’t matter.” So it doesn’t. Nimueh shimmies her skirt to the floor so she’s left in underwear and heels, an impressive show if she says so herself. The woman is hugging herself, eyes on the floor.

Nimeuh can’t let that stand. She wanders over and winds her arms around the woman’s neck to breathe in her ear. “We can do whatever you want. I’m yours tonight.”

She takes a shuddering breath, and then she relaxes into Nimueh’s hold. “Okay.”

“Good. What do you want me to do?” She lowers her voice to a purr. “I could eat you out. Or I can use my fingers, or a vibrator ...”

“Can I--” She stops, cheeks crimson, when Nimueh glances at her.

“You can do anything--within reason.”

“Can I use my mouth?” Nimueh pulls back, more surprised than she should be. “I want to get you off, I want you to teach me how to make it good. Is that okay?”

“Of course.” Nimueh climbs on the bed, leading her.

“Could you sit at the edge of the bed?” She raises her eyebrows but obeys, and the woman sinks to her knees between Nimueh’s legs. “Tell me when it’s good,” she says, voice breaking. “Make me make it good, okay?”

If anything, Nimueh’d expected tender foreplay, touches and kisses and maybe some fingering at the end. She hadn’t expected the woman to go for her cunt like she’s starving for it, mouthing at her through the red lace, fingers clutching Nimueh’s thighs, but it’s what she gets. It’s messy and desperate and Nimueh has to force her head away to slide her pants off, and then there’s a tongue against her clit and the woman is fucking _whimpering_ , and it’s all Nimueh can do to wind her fingers in her pretty blonde hair and say “Fuck, that’s it, good, sweetheart, you’re so good.”

The woman gets her off once, twice, keeps pressing sloppy kisses to her cunt and says “Tell me I’m--” and that’s when Nimueh pulls her onto the bed, holds her close and says “You’re a good girl, you’re _my_ good girl” and isn’t surprised when she breaks down sobbing.

*

“I’m Ygraine, and I’m getting married next week,” says the woman after Nimueh soothes her with kisses and gets her off and wraps around her. “I had to do this once, I have to _know_ what I’m giving up.”

That should be Nimueh’s cue to get her money and go, but she settles into Ygraine instead, kissing the back of her neck. “And now you know.”

“Yes,” says Ygraine, catch in her voice. “Now I do.”

* * *

**51.**

Long ago, when the priestesses still ruled the Isle, playing the wife in the sacred wedding at Beltane was the greatest of honors for a young initiate. They had their pick of Kings and Catha, warriors and artists all vying for the chance to pledge themselves bodily to the gods of the Old Religion.

That changed with Uther Pendragon.

Nimueh herself had bedded the man on Beltane the year he claimed Camelot, and he betrayed them all by hunting down them down, and making it too dangerous to hold rituals in any of the sacred places.

This year Morgause would be of age, and Nimueh had decided she would conduct the ceremony herself. If the gods were displeased, well, they could burn along with their followers for all she cared. If they were still there to hear mortals, if they still wanted their rituals to be absolutes, then they should have struck down Uther years ago.

She dressed Morgause in a white shift she stole from a noblewoman and led her to a grove the Druid’s claimed as theirs long ago. As far as she was concerned, the Druids had lost all claim to their spaces when they rolled over and let themselves be slaughtered. The fools could keep their peace, waiting for the savior they dreamed of, and if they wouldn’t make use of their grove, she would. Their trees could bear witness to _real_ magic.

Nimueh spread her cloak on the grass, placing the bag with the necessary implements on the ground beside it, then bade Morgause to lay down. Morgause was no virgin. No woman ready to be a high priestess could be, since they strove to excel at all forms of power, and Morgause had always been an apt pupil, skilled with sword and word alike. She had a destiny that burned like fire. Nimueh would give her this last thing, and then Morgause would be left to rule the Blood Guard, and Nimueh could have her revenge.

Morgause hitched up her shift, bracing her feet on the ground with her knees up. Under normal circumstances the bride would ride the groom, but that position wouldn’t work with what Nimueh had planned. She opened the bag and pulled out the tools to transform herself into Morgause’s husband: antlers to represent the horned god, which she placed on her head, and a pot of grease that she applied liberally to her hands.

She began slowly, just one, then two fingers, until Morgause’s pants became a plea for more. Nimueh slid in a third finger, spreading and twisting them, never actually increasing her pace or the pressure, holding her thumb firmly on Morgause’s clit.

Once, there would have been chanting and prayers to accompany the act; there should have been bonfires. But too many of their kind had already burned, and there was no one left for songs, just Nimueh’s cold determination and Morgause’s keening as she added another finger.

She increased her speed, working Morgause harder, opening her up until Morgause was slick and breathless from it. When she judged the time was right, Nimueh pulled her hand free, drawing from Morgause a strangled wail of complaint. But she wouldn’t have to wait long: applying more of the grease to her hand, Nimueh returned to the task with her whole hand this time, thumb and fingers together to stretch Morgause wider. Folding her hand as tightly as she could, she got in past her knuckles at last.

Morgause shouted and chanted nonsense in the tongue of the Old Religion as Nimueh slowly drew her fingers into a fist. She pumped her arm once, and that was all it took to bring Morgause over, the girl shaking apart around her wrist.

Nimueh pulled her hand free, tossed the antlers to the ground and stood. She stared down at Morgause who was still gasping for air.

“You’ve learned everything I can teach you Morgause,” Nimueh said, as she walked into the forest alone.

* * *

**52.**

Elena wasn't one to set store by gossip or rumors. She knew the things people said about Vivian — generally some variation of "bitch" or "slut", depending on who you asked — but Elena thought she was perfect. Perfect body, perfect golden hair that fell in perfect shining waves, immaculate beauty, and poise that Elena could only dream of. She was gorgeous and popular and elegant, everything that Elena _wasn't_ , with her flyaway hair and complete lack of fashion sense. When Elena agreed to tutor her in math, she figured maybe it'd be a mutually beneficial arrangement, and she'd pick up a bit of Vivian's grace by osmosis.

She didn't quite expect her weekly tutoring sessions to turn into weekly make-out-and-more sessions, but considering Vivian currently had her pinned in the middle of her pink silk sheets and was insistently worming her way up under Elena's (old, threadbare, hopelessly stained) t-shirt, Elena wasn't much inclined to complain.

Vivian sat up, straddling Elena's hips. The weight of her made nerves and excitement skitter through Elena's stomach. "Take that _off_." Vivian scowled as though the shirt's existence were a personal affront.

Elena wriggled out of it and tossed it aside. When Vivian embraced her, fingers tracing around her ribs to unhook her bra, Elena grabbed her and roll her onto her back.

Vivian started to frown. Elena pushed her cute little blouse up and mouthed at a nipple, and Vivian's frown melted away. "Oh, yes," she purred, dragging her fingers through Elena's hair, mussing it up even worse than it usually was. Elena nearly drew away, ashamed of its unruliness, but Vivian said, "You can keep doing that," and she couldn't have stopped if the house were on fire.

Vivian's nipples were hard and round and pink, as perfect as the rest of her. Elena wanted to kiss her _everywhere_ , to lap and suck and stroke every inch of skin until she knew how much Elena adored her.

Vivian hummed a contented note, her eyes closed and her expression blissful as Elena kissed down her stomach, past her navel. She pushed Vivian's clingy skirt up, bunched and wrinkled about her waist. The sight of her like that, rumpled and disheveled when she never had a hair out of place, made Elena grin fiercely.It was a thrill to know that she was the cause, that it was because of her that Vivian allowed herself to be taken apart like that.

Elena nudged Vivian's knees apart until there was room for her to lie between them. She kissed the inside of Vivian's thighs, where the skin is soft as velvet, then up to where her panties were soaked through with the evidence of her desire.

Vivian moaned happily when Elena lapped at her through them. Elena pulled the thin fabric aside and dragged her tongue over Vivian's flesh until she found her clit. Vivian's cry, high and sharp and punctuated with the scrape of her nails over Elena's scalp, made Elena flush hot with pleasure, but it also made her draw back reluctantly.

Vivian pulled at her hair in sharp command, so Elena slid two fingers into her to make up for it. "Viv," she whispered. "Your father…" 

Vivian huffed. "My father is so busy chasing off any potential boyfriends that he doesn't even think to worry about girlfriends."

Elena hid her smile against Vivian's thigh. "Is that what I am?"

"Don't be coy, Elena. It doesn't suit you."

Elena crooked her fingers until she found the place that made Vivian arch off the bed with a breathless moan. The muscles in her legs shuddered deliciously beneath Elena's kiss.

"Elena," Vivian gasped, twisting her fingers into Elena's hair. "Don't tease."

Elena licked the skin beneath her lips, scraped her teeth over it until the perfect porcelain had flushed pink. Vivian writhed, grunting sharp, hungry noises. When she was trembling, shivering all over, her toes curled and hands clenched in her sheets, dragging them into disarray, she threw her head back onto her lacy pillow and moaned, "God, _please!_ "

Elena stilled and raised her head, staring up the slender length of Vivian's body at her. She'd never heard Vivian ask for anything in the entire time she'd known her, had certainly never heard her beg. Her face was flushed, eyes wild, her lips pink and swollen from biting at them. She'd never looked less composed, or more beautiful.

Elena smiled, sank back between her legs, and gave her everything she wanted.

* * *

**53.**

Freya’s back was against the wall and her legs where wrapped around Will’s waist. Her thighs were wet around him and she giggled against his throat as they swayed. Gripping his cock he slid back into her. She moaned biting down lightly against his skin to try to muffle the sound. They were fucking in a closet, his dress pants were around his ankles and her skirt hiked over her thighs. 

People were talking outside the door, the party was in full swing and the voices grew louder as whoever it was moved closer.

“Shit,” his voice was a pant as he slammed her against the wall. Her arms wrapped tighter around his neck to hold on.

“Don’t stop.” She whispered in his ear, her nails digging into his back pulling him closer. He thrust into her hard let loose a groan. His head rested against her shoulder as his hips stuttered. “Did you…?”

“Sorry,” he laughed softly his hang fumbling between them as he slid off the condom, tying it quickly and throwing it in the corner.

Before she could moan in frustration he was setting her gently on her feet and sliding down to his knees. His hands spread her and she moaned, tossing her head back as he buried his head between her thighs. His hand slide up and his thumb rubbed against her clit as he buried his tongue inside her. He was fast, knowing her body well by now. It wasn’t long till she was shaking under him and coming apart, biting her arm to stop the scream that wanted to work its way from her throat.

She took in a deep breath as he moved back and looked down at his grinning face. His chin glistened, wet with her and he licked his lips lewdly. “We should get back before someone finds us.” she told him regretfully, softening it with a smile.

“Right,” he stood pulling up his pants and buckling them. She tried to smooth down her dress, slipping into the panties she had thrown in the corner when they had come in here. As she smoothed her hair down she felt Will’s hands on her back, zipping up her dress. He pressed a gentle kiss to her shoulder and she turned to him, unable to resist stealing one last kiss of her own. 

“You go first.” he murmured softly. She slipped past him and out the door, relieved that whoever had been near there earlier had gone. She needed to find a bathroom to finish cleaning herself up. She wiped the sweat off her body with a napkin, sprayed perfume on her skin, and applied a fresh layer of lipstick. Leaving the bathroom an arm wrapped around her waist and a kiss was pressed to her neck.

“I’d wondered where you’d gotten off to.” Merlin grinned at her, his skin flush with alcohol and his eyes tender as he looked at her. “Have you seen Will?” His smile was guileless and her stomach twisted.

“I’m sure he’s around here somewhere.” and she kissed him back, trying to lose herself in the way he felt pressed up against her. Trying to pretend the guilt wasn’t burning through her with his every touch and smile.

“Found him.” Arthur walked up, his arm wrapped around Will’s shoulders and Freya’s eyes slid to his. His lips still looked swollen and she wondered if she looked the same. If they could see the matching flush to her skin and betrayal in her eyes. Was Arthur’s grip on Will too tight? Was there accusation in his eyes? 

“Fantastic.” Merlin beamed turning to her “Arthur wants to meet some of his mates down at the pub and I thought we could join them?”

“Sounds greet.” she leaned into Merlin’s side and tried to focus on the way he looked at her, like she was the most beautiful and incredible thing he’d ever found. She felt Will come to stand beside her and she didn’t dare look at him. That didn’t stop her heart from racing and her body from wanting.

* * *

**54.**

“Dude, did you seriously just get a stiffy from watching the profs fuck?” Gwaine leers at Leon in the half light falling through the crack where the closet door isn't entirely closed. Outside, Mr. Pendragon, the headmaster, and Mr. Emrys, the biology teacher, are whispering sweet nothings and exchanging soft, post-coital kisses.

Leon flushes, looking anywhere but at Gwaine.

“Well at least we win the bet. Percy owes us fifty pounds,” Gwaine murmurs in his ear, the soft tickle of his warm breath making it even more unbearable.

“I don't think they're going to leave for a while, d'you?”

“Not really. It's the headmaster's office and biology doesn't start for another hour,” Leon whispers back. He's starting to think this bet was a terrible idea.

“You going to take care of that?” Gwaine asks not-so-subtly eying his trousers.

“No!”

“Fine,” Gwaine sighs, dropping to his knees, “make me do all the work why doncha?”

Leon tries desperately to stop Gwaine's wandering hands. But unless he wants to make a lot of noise and get them both discovered, there isn't a whole lot he can do. Gwaine gets his trousers open and mouths wetly across the line of his prick through his pants. Leon bites down on his lip hard, hands slipping helplessly against the wall behind him as he tries to find something to hang onto. His head is spinning already and his cock betrays him by twitching under Gwaine's mouth.

“I think it likes me,” Gwaine whispers.

“No it doesn't. It's not a dog,” Leon hisses back.

Gwaine drags his pants down to mid-thigh and slides his mouth over Leon's cockhead, and _jesus fuck_ his mouth is wet and hot and so, so wonderful. He takes more of Leon into his mouth, sliding forward bit by bit, and just doesn't _stop._

By the time he reaches the base, Leon's eyes have rolled back into his head and if it weren't for Gwaine's hands copping a feel of his arse, he probably wouldn't be standing anymore.

“Where the fuck did you learn this?” Leon whispers breathlessly. Gwaine makes a strange humming sound in response and swallows around him, muscles of his throat contracting and shifting in a way that would have Leon screaming if he hadn't stuffed his fist into his mouth and bitten down hard.

The worse part is that Gwaine actually seems like he's enjoying it, maybe even like he's been gagging for it all along. Gwaine is notorious, it's true, experiencing it first hand is something else.

“If you keep that up, I'm going to-” Leon says a little louder than he probably should, considering the headmaster and apparently his boyfriend are on the other side of the door.

Gwaine pulls back, presumably because he can't resist talking for more than five minutes at a time and eyes the spit-slick length of Leon's prick with an eager look that shouldn't be hot and totally is.

“Good. I'm going to make you come fast and hard now,” his eyes slide up Leon's body slowly, expression gone dark and hungry and oh so serious, “and later I'll fuck you nice and slow. Would you like that?”

Leon shudders.

“ _Yes._ ”

Leon takes him in his mouth again and digs his fingers into Leon's arse. He tries to stifle a gasp and hopes that there'll be bruises there tomorrow the shape of Gwaine's devious fingers.

He twists his fingers into Gwaine lush hair and pulls, reveling in the groan it pulls from him and the way the sound feels around his cock. He does it again and manages to look down this time to see as well as feel.

It almost knocks him off his feet all over again when he looks past the place where Gwaine's red lips are stretched wide around him and sees that Gwaine is fisting himself furiously.

Gwaine has started making this little hitching sounds every time he tries to breathe between waves of sucking Leon's dick and fuck if that isn't hot too. He's struggling for air but is so desperate to keep sucking Leon's cock that he refuses to just pull back and take a breath.

“Fuck,” Leon hisses as his hips twitch forward of their own accord. Gwaine the flutter of muscle as Gwaine gags is what pushes Leon over the edge. His orgasm takes him by surprise, jolting through his body like a physical shock as he comes down Gwaine's throat.

“Fuck,” he says again, for good measure as he slides bonelessly down the wall. He watches Gwaine lick the last of his come from his lips and wipe his sticky hand on his trousers.

“How long until round two?” 

Gwaine grins at him.

* * *

**55.**

It was a strange mixture of relief and incredulity that Morris felt when Merlin was made Arthur’s servant. They weren’t particularly close – not at all, actually, what with the whole showing off to his friends aspect of Arthur’s colourful personality. His second meeting with Merlin was after he had saved Arthur’s life, and he had gladly quickly shown Merlin the ropes, not sure whether to warn him about how horrible Arthur could be when he was angry or not. Judging from their _first_ meeting, however, Merlin could hold his own. Just about.

Now, however? Merlin was holding his own extremely well. And then some.

Morris had turned round the corner and realised he’d been stood still for some time, frozen in shock and fear of finding the prince on his knees, pinning Merlin to the wall with his hands on his hips and sucking Merlin’s cock with... well, practised ease. He darted back around the corner again, looking to see if anyone else had seen, or seen _him_ , but there was no one. 

A muffled groan drew his attention back to them, and he peeked around the corner to see Merlin knocking his head back against the wall, mouth hanging open as his hips bucked against Arthur’s hands. The only sign of disapproval from the prince was his fingers turning white as he shoved Merlin’s hips back. His eyes were still serenely shut and... Never had Morris imagined he would ever see Prince Arthur’s lips around another man’s cock, and he still felt like he should be checking to see if he was dreaming. 

“ _Arthur_!” Merlin gasped. “Fuck.”

His hands tightened in Arthur’s hair, and Morris realized with a start that he was palming his cock through his own breeches, only halfway there but rapidly getting harder and he wasn’t sure if he was more confused at his own reaction or that he had felt surprised to see this. He remembered the prince’s smile as he’d ordered the guards to throw Merlin in the dungeons when the idiot had actually swung for Arthur. It looked similar to how Arthur looked when he faced a particularly challenging opponent in a tournament, or trying to hunt down game in the forest. Speculative.

Arthur wrenched Merlin’s breeches lower, and Morris watched as he slid his hand from Merlin’s hip to _behind_ and- Was he? He was, judging from the way Merlin’s eyes opened wide and he seemed to grind back. Merlin hummed, voice strained, trying to keep quiet, and Arthur slowed the bobbing of his head right down, lingering at the tip of Merlin’s cock as he seemed to be methodically taking Merlin apart. 

“Gods. Arthur. Come on,” Merlin said, hand moving to the back of Arthur’s neck. Then, so quietly Morris nearly didn’t hear it, “More.”

Somehow, Arthur’s reddened lips formed a smirk around the base of Merlin’s cock, and Morris saw him shift his hand until Merlin sighed, his legs parting as far as his breeches would let him. Then his legs were tensing as Arthur _sucked_ , his cheeks hollowing as Merlin clenched his hands on Arthur’s shoulders and he bit his lip. There was a moment when they were all so silent all Morris could here was his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, but then Merlin opened his eyes and gazed down at Arthur.

“We should- ah... go,” Merlin said as his cock slid from Arthur’s mouth.

Morris took that as his queue to get out of there before anyone noticed and he was caught... not quite with his pants down, unlike some. He’d never be able to look the prince in the eye again. He’d have to get one of the other servants to attend the prince when Merlin wasn’t available. The new servant, George, would probably do.

* * *

**56.**

Percival rushes into the room straight past Gwaine who is crouching on the floor and Gaius on the bed to Elyan. He grabs Elyan by the hand and looks deep into his eyes, “You alright?”

“I’ve been locked up with Gwaine for a week.” Elyan says but nods that he is alright. 

They both check on Gaius and prepare to leave the cell.

Elyan pulls Percival to the side as they leave, “You and me are having a chat later,” He says with a wink.

~~~

When all the loose ends have been sorted Elyan slips into Percival’s room later that night after knocking quickly. Percival is sitting on his bed just removing his chainmail. When he looks up and starts to see Elyan standing at the door. Elyan looks at him and smiles as he clicks the lock over. 

“I saw what you did in the cells earlier,” Elyan says in a conversational tone. 

“What I did?” Percival asks an innocent look on his face.

“Rushed straight past everyone, to me,” Elyan says as he starts padding across the room.

Percival looks slightly guilty, “Umm”

“I’m not saying anything bad, quite the contrary actually,” Elyan pulls his shirt over his head and removes it as he comes to stand before Percival, “It was really hot.”

Percival blushes, he looks like he really doesn’t know where to look and finally settles on looking Elyan straight in the eye. 

“I guess this just means if you want to?” Elyan says as he kicks out of his breeches and continues to stand before Percival. 

Percival takes a moment. He looks Elyan over from head to toe and quickly grabs him and pulls him into his arms, “You are incorrigible, totally incorrigible.” 

“And you love it,” Elyan pulls Percival’s mouth to his and licks his way into a kiss, flicking his tongue against Percival’s lips smiling the whole time. 

Percival groans at the feel of all of Elyan’s naked flesh again his clothed body. He runs his hand down Elyan’s sides eliciting a full body shiver from the other man.

“You need less clothes. Now,” Elyan says yanking Percival’s shirt out of his breeches as he gives a startled shout. Elyan makes short work of Percival’s breeches and they both fall naked onto Percival’s bed. 

Elyan stretched out on top of Percival’s body rubbing his chest against Percival’s and reaching up for another kiss. 

Percival obliged and slide his hands around Elyan’s waist and down to palm his ass. “Mm, nice,” he mumbles into Elyan’s lips.

“What you’re grabbing or what you’re kissing?” Elyan says with a cheeky smile. 

Percival pulls back and says, “Both,” with a straight face.

Elyan laughs and starts rutting against Percival’s hip. The pre-come leaking from his cock creating a warm slick trail.

Heat pools in Percival’s stomach he licks his palm and grabs both their dicks in his large hands. Elyan groans at the contact and Percival captures his lips in another kiss and he starts to rub them together. 

“You’re hands, you’re fucking hands,” Elyan pants as he stares mesmerized by the motion of Percival’s hands on both their dicks. 

Percival grins and speeds up a bit tangling his fingers over both their cocks. Heat flushing his body as he nears his climax. Elyan captures Percival’s nipple between his thumb and forefinger squeezing it hard. Percival falls over the edge with this and comes in long, white spurts all over his cock and Elyan. 

Elyan grins and grabs his own cock as Percival lies back with a blissed out smile on his face, “I’m going to come all over that beautiful cock. Watch me,” Elyan growls as he stripes his own cock hard and fast till he comes all over Percival’s spent dick. 

Elyan collapses beside Percival on the bed, turning on his side and sliding a leg across Percival’s thighs.

Percival’s grabs one of Elyan’s hands turn the palm up and kisses it, “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.”

Elyan places his palm on Percival’s chest and his head on his shoulder, “Me too, me too.”

* * *

**57.**

Geoffrey was a librarian. Well not just a librarian. He was the castle record keeper too. But first and foremost he was a librarian. He was a librarian for one reason and one reason only. He liked books. Big books and small books, long books and short books, books with pictures, books with ribbons and tassels, books that smelled like ink and dust. Geoffrey cared for his books and liked to think that they cared in return - were they in any way sentient of course. 

It was a relatively normal night, much like any other night really, that found Geoffrey pacing the rows of his library, running an old wizened hand over the rough spines, occasionally picking up and placing a tome here or there. He had just turned the corner into the one section Uther did not know about - it was, you could say, a bit of a _magical_ place - when he heard it. A bitten off cry followed by a pained groan. 

Geoffrey's eyes widened. Surely no one was hurt in his library. He quickly took a step forward to peer around a tall bookcase. The sight that met him was not in fact the gory scene of pain and suffering he had expected. Rather it was the sight of the Crown Prince tipping his manservant over a reading desk. 

Now, being on in years and having his own fair shake of flings, Geoffrey the librarian found it odd that he had to fight down a flush at that particular moment. Though it was one thing that most of the castle servants and indeed some of the nobles were aware that the prince and his manservant were _involved_ , it was quite another thing to witness it firsthand.

To see the way they moved together, the prince thrusting in and out of his manservant, the animalistic grunts and pants that came forth, but also the look in their eyes. Even from his hidden spot behind the bookcase Geoffrey could see the caring and affection between the two. 

Just then the manservant - what was his name, Mervin, Marlin, something - let out a long, drawn out moan and panted the prince's name. Geoffrey watched as Arthur's thrusts became erratic. Geoffrey recognised the signs of pending release when he saw them. 

Decidin on a gracious exit, geoffrey slowly backed away from the bookcase and meandered his way back to his desk. A few rows over he heard the unmistakable cry of both boys - ahem, young men - spilling their seed. With a warm feeling in his gut and a light flush over his cheeks, the librarian continued on his way to his desk. He tried not to make a sound, lest he alert them to his presence. No reason to embarrass them. Geoffrey could keep a secret. He just hoped none of his precious books were defiled in the process of their lovemaking. 

\--

One week later Geoffrey was sitting at his desk perusing over one of his many books, taking dare not to bend pages or stretch the spine. He heard some shuffling and looked up to see the prince's manservant lopping toward him with a big smile on his face. Geoffrey peered over his reading spectacles. 

"Can I help you?"

"Gaius needs me to get a book for him. Something on plants and healing?"

"Ah yes. You'll find many references on medicinal uses of various plants in the botany section. Second row to your left."

The manservant's grin got wider. "Great. Thanks."

The boy started off for the aforementioned section. Geoffrey followed him with his eyed. Just when he was about to turn the corner Geoffrey gave him a word of advice. 

"Make sure you don't pass it up and end up in the back corner. The books there should hold little use to you. Not to mention it was quite... Dirty the last I checked."

A fierce blush crawled up the boy's neck and face. He sputtered and nodded and them dashed off to find his botany text. Geoffrey smirked after him.

* * *

**58.**

A small candle in her hand, all the mead and wine locked away should anyone get thirsty while she slept, Mary took one last look around, pleased with the way everything looked, all clean and tidy for tomorrow, when a knock startled her. 

She knew her candlelight would be visible through the cracks in the door, and Mary was no lady of the court, so she grabbed a broom and hollered, "The tavern is closed! Come back tomorrow!"

A moment passed.

"I mean no harm. I wish to make reparations for a brawl that happened here in the fall." A deep voice replied.

Mary laughed, making her way to the door, "A brawl? 'fraid you'll have to be more specific."

"I'm afraid I can't, it has been too long. I just want to pay you back and be on my way. If it's too much trouble, I'll leave the coins here and you can take your chances leaving them outside." Mary could practically feel his smirk through the door.

She hesitated. The man was insistent, which often spelled trouble, but he seemed sincere enough, and Mary just wanted him gone so she could go to sleep. She opened the door. 

His face was covered by a hood, which fell further as he bowed before her. Mary leaned on the broom and blocked his entrance, waiting, tired. 

"I haven’t got all night."

"My apologies," the stranger said and pulled his hood off, revealing a face Mary could almost recall, niggling at the edges of her memory. His hair was blonde, falling into his eyes, face covered in day-old stubble, a strong jawline highlighted his smile, brilliant even in the dim light of her candle. 

"It’s you!" Mary finally remembered. "You have _some_ nerve showin' up here now. The time it took for me to fix this place up after you lot! And not a single one offered to help. Some men you are." The hand on the broom itched to smack the stranger, and Mary was ready to continue ranting, when the stranger placed a finger against her lips.

It shocked her more than anything else, but she stopped talking. He stepped into her space, making her step back into the tavern, before closing the door behind him, finger not leaving her lips for a moment.

Though it was his companion then that caught Mary's eye, her tastes more toward lean, wiry men, having this built stranger looming over her wasn't unwelcome. 

"As I said, I merely want to make amends." The stranger placed a jangly satchel on the table next to them and Mary's heart fell. _Of course._

But as she exhaled against his finger, ready to speak her mind, she saw him shudder, stepping even closer into Mary's space, their bodies practically flush together. Mary felt heat travel through her, a familiar dampness spreading between her thighs. She opened her mouth, taking the stranger’s finger inside, closing her eyes, and sucking.

He moaned out, but pulled his finger from her mouth, holding her face in his hands as he kissed her without finesse. The broom fell to the floor and Mary only barely put the candle on the table before the stranger was pushing her against it.

She scrambled backwards, resting on her elbows, watching as he kissed down her chest and stomach. He hiked up her skirts and buried his face in the wet heat, nosing through the folds. 

Mary clung to her skirts while the stranger lapped at her sex, making her moan; getting wetter and wetter. The licking and sucking sounds echoed through the empty tavern obscenely. His hands held her thighs open, digging bruises into the flesh, probably, but as she rocked herself against the stranger's face, chasing her release, getting closer, Mary didn't care. She only wanted his tongue to keep lapping at the hard nub, to never stop, while her head swam in a needy haze. 

When she finally came, she held his head in place with her thighs, riding out the pleasure. She felt boneless, no strength to pick herself up, or speak.

He fixed up her skirts, smoothing them down, kissing her thighs. She reached for him and he kissed her hand. Mary had no energy to chase him, but began to speak when he leaned over her and pressed his glistening lips to hers chastely.

"Thank you." he said, bowing again before pulling his hood back up and leaving the way he came. And Mary only then realised that he hadn’t.

* * *

**59.**

"You really shouldn't be going yet," Nimueh says as she enters Edwin's room.

Edwin's sitting on a chair next to the table, packing away his medical equipment carefully. He runs a loving hand over the small wooden box with his most prized possessions, the ones he intends to use against Uther Pendragon.

"I don't want to listen to this again," Edwin says. She crosses the room and stands next to the table. Her hand rest along the edge, but she's respectful enough she doesn't touch anything. Her fingers twitch as if they want to, though.

"You should wait before going to Camelot," she advises – warns – yet again. "There's more there than we yet know." 

"I'm ready," Edwin says. He's been patient for what feels like forever, but now is the time to act. 

"I wish I could convince you otherwise," Nimueh says. She smiles coyly. "Perhaps I can give you incentive?"

She approaches his chair. Her movements are smooth and practiced; the way she hikes up her skirt so it settles easily around her hips as she straddles his legs, her right arm slithering over his shoulder so she can squeeze the back of his neck, her left hand settling lightly on his lower stomach.

Edwin's fully dressed in breeches and a long-sleeved tunic. The heavy robe he wears in public hangs on a peg on the back of the door. He misses its comfort, the way it covers him and keeps him from prying, curious eyes.

Nimueh's seen all of him before. She knows how he doesn't like to be gawked at, or even touched much over his scars. She easily avoids doing so, but her hand slips down further, fingers brushing against his skin as they slide into his breeches. 

Edwin doesn't get this a lot – has barely in the past, no woman has wanted him – so he's already hard, just from feeling her heat through his clothes. He slips his hands under her skirts, fingers seeking the heat there. He rubs slowly over silky warm skin, dipping a little inside.

She grins, sharp and beautiful, as she pulls his cock out. "You're always so ready for me."

"As are you." He drags fingernails down her thighs, making her groan, then reaches up to tug at the neckline of her flimsy gown, revealing her breasts. He kisses the space between them, then takes a nipple between his lips, sucking hard. She holds the back of his head and arches into it, breath heavier now.

"You're gorgeous," he mouths against soft skin, tongue flicking.

"And dangerous," she says, inching forward and lifting herself up. She slides down onto his cock, already so wet and ready for him. 

"Mustn't forget that," he agrees, rolling his hips up.

Nimueh gasps and jerks forward, the movement so sudden the chair tips back. He's caught off guard, tries to right them, but then there's a flash of gold in her eyes, quick and alert. The chair stops, easily balancing on two legs. Glancing down, he sees her feet are planted firmly on the floor.

She's got leverage, and she's in control. Just as she likes it, and he's not going to argue, not when she's so willing. He can only tilt his head back, moaning, as she starts to ride him hard. It's a fast pace she sets, bouncing up and down on his cock. He palms her breasts and tweaks her nipples, rolling them between his fingers. She moans filthily, and her hips begin to move faster.

He reaches down again, fishing under her skits. He finds her nub of pleasure, rubs firm circles over it. She begins to go tense and shudder, and he can tell by her panting breath she's almost there. 

She comes hard around his cock, body trembling. Ceasing her movements as she rides out her climax, he grabs her hips and holds her in place, thrusting up into her. Pressing his face in the crook of her neck, biting down, he comes in her with a deep grunt.

After she releases the magic holding back the chair, she easily slides off him and straightens herself up. 

"I'm sorry," Edwin says as he tucks his soft cock back into his breeches, "but that wasn't enough incentive. I have to go."

"I know," she says, and doesn't sound sorry. She pats his smooth cheek. "Goodbye, Edwin."

"Goodbye, Nimueh."

He tries to ignore how final that sounds, and continues to prepare for his journey to Camelot.

* * *

**60.**

“Are you still with me, Mordred?”

Mordred shuddered. Aithusa, the man he’d picked up at the bar after Merlin had swanned off to dance with his boyfriend, was looking down at him with a face of gentle amusement. There had been something about Aithusa, with his almost white blond hair and pale blue eyes – or were they gold? – that had pulled at something deep in Mordred’s chest.

He’d gone home with the man without a thought.

Now, he still wasn’t questioning his decision, even handcuffed naked to the brass headboard and weighted down by Aithusa’s strong thighs over his. It felt right, somehow.

Aithusa smiled as their eyes met, an enigmatic smile that made Mordred’s normally reserved composure melt a bit. “Hey, there you are.” He dropped down and gave Mordred a little peck, teasing just enough that Mordred lifted his shoulders off the bed in an effort to follow Aithusa’s lips away.

Aithusa pushed him back down. “Patience, Mordred. Soon enough.”

“But…”

"Shh.” Aithusa placed one of his long, pale fingers over Mordred’s kiss swollen lips. “Relax.”

With the word came a flow of golden energy, and Mordred felt every muscle in his body rush to obey the command.

“Better?” Aithusa asked. Mordred nodded. “Good. Now we can start.”

 _Start?_ Mordred wanted to ask, but Aithusa was kissing him again. And that was fine, that was more than fine, the two of them just laying there and kissing, skin on skin…

“Oh!” Mordred’s eyes flew open as he felt something push into him and fill him up, suddenly. His eyes flew downward, but Aithusa hadn’t moved at all. “What is… what… I don’t… _oooh_ …” Mordred’s head fell back against the pillow without his permission at the feeling of the warm, shimmering heat pressed up inside him.

Aithusa chuckled. “It’s magic, Mordred. Don’t you recognize it?”

Mordred shook his head, then nodded, then shook it again. The sensation was too confusing, just sitting there throbbing in him while Aithusa laid on him, their cocks brushing together but not touching in any real way. “No? Well, that’s too bad, I was hoping you could help. Maybe next time.”

“You’re crazy,” Mordred breathed, but in a reverent sort of way as the magic inside of him started to pulse and vibrate, making his hips jerk up into Aithusa’s welcoming weight.

Aithusa laughed. “I’ve been called a lot worse.” And with no further ado he reached down and slipped two fingers into Mordred’s heat, making the magic swell and writhe.

Mordred gasped for breath, tugging at the handcuffs that held him in any attempt to ground himself in reality. It wasn’t working – the harder Aithusa pushed, the less coherent Mordred’s thoughts became, until it was just a litany of _more, more, God, MORE_ , chanted over and over in the hope that Aithusa might somehow understand, because Mordred sure as hell wasn’t going to be able to speak any time soon.

“It’s okay,” Aithusa said, speeding up his achingly deep thrusts with his fingers as the magic quickened its pace, stretching Mordred to his limits. He groaned out loud at the dual sensations warring within him, each racing to push him over the edge of climax. “I know what you need, Mordred. Just trust me, I’ve got you.”

Then the magic burst, racing like fire through Mordred’s veins until he was filled with nothing but boiling pleasure, and his own magic burst free from confinement with a massive explosion of white light.

* * *

**61.**

A Bargain Struck

 

The snap of a whip made Morgause jerk, a smirk working its way onto her face. Adrenaline sang through her as the air rang with the noise, finally dying as it hit the heavy wooden doors to the cavernous room. The man below her shuddered for another reason as the blow landed on his back, already a swath of stinging red marks. She hit his shoulder blade with her heavy boot when she realized he’d stopped moving. It was easy, fun even as her legs were spread, knees draped over the arms of the man’s own throne, and she only had to move just so to land a throbbing blow to his back.

“I didn’t give you permission to stop, Cenred.”

The king looked up from between her legs, mouth red, swollen, and wet. She smirked at him, the look twisting her face so it was caught between fondness and disgust. “Get back to it, little king, or I may go back on our bargain.”

Cenred only glared at her. It was the way she liked her pets, obedient but not yet broken. The broken ones were no fun. She shoved his head back down and he nearly lost his balance, tilting dangerously to the side though he spread his arms and legs what he could to stabilize himself. It didn’t help much with ankles and wrists bound together as they were and his bare knees scraping the floor but he’d learned by now that if he fell she wouldn’t help him back up and he would be punished further for it.

His corrections made him sway forward and she bit back a groan as his mouth crashed into her wet curls. She growled at him when he made no further move and hit him again with her boot so a solid sound came from the impact. “I warn you, Cenred-”

His tongue swept over her and she moaned softly instead, bringing her free hand to grip his hair. She laughed throatily as the wet organ drove into her. They’d done this enough she knew the feel of his tongue and all his little tricks. She’d hoped the whip would be incentive enough but her pleasure only simmered for him now. No, it wasn’t enough.

But perhaps. Her hand found his jaw and she murmured a spell, feeling the heat of magic shoot through her. There was a moment that she nearly pouted as it seemed to have failed but Cenred gave a strangled shout and tried to pull away from her. Her hand slid to the back of his head and pushed him forward again so he was crushed against her, from his gasps, hardly able to breathe.

But she had what she wanted, could feel his tongue lengthening, delving so much deeper. It writhed like a snake with no finesse, no control from the man at her cunt. But perhaps that was due to his panic. No matter. She leaned back to enjoy these new marvelous sensations, moaning as her body became a drawn bow; her legs stiff over the unyielding chair and her hands deformed claws in his hair.

He tried to push against her hold again and she snarled. As she forced him back down the bridge of his nose rammed her clit and she arched off the chair with a cry. The angle of his head kept the pressure there and lightning flashed down her spine. She jerked once and let out a choked moan, ignoring the man making garbled suffocating noises.

She lost a moment of time as the waves threatened to pull her away from reality so that when her eyes focused again she saw Cenred had overbalanced to fall on his back, or perhaps she’d pushed him over and not remembered it. He glared up at her, torn between his severe lust and loathing of her, tongue slowly disappearing back into his mouth.

She gave a throaty laugh, high on pleasure, as his mouth caught the light, her juices streaming down and across his face. She sneered and brought a stiff leg down from the chair arm and brought her boot down on his trapped and very blue balls. “Don’t think I’m done with you yet, little king.” He gurgled a reply.

* * *

**62.**

The tower stood in the exact centre of a lush, green meadow. Tall grass waved around the hooves of a white horse, its rider squinting up at the tower’s single window.

The architects had neglected to include stairs, which was just stupid.

“Bollocks,” said the rider. With a twitch of heels against its sides, the horse cantered into the tower’s shadow. “Before I rescue you, I want to point out I’m not collecting a large enough purse for the effort!” This was shouted up to the small window with more resignation than belligerence. Princesses often couldn’t help getting stuck in towers; it was hardly their fault when they had no stairs with which to make an escape. And the people responsible for locking princesses up in aforementioned towers rarely left anything useful, like rope, lying about. Lots of harps and needlework to be found in stairless towers — very little rope.

It was difficult to see clearly from the tower’s base, but what looked like a messy blonde head poked out from the window. “Might want to take a step back,” called the rider, dismounting and unlooping a long length of rope tied to an iron claw.

Scaling walls was a sweaty business in full armour. When the rider finally gained a perch on the windowsill, it took her a moment to claw the wet hair from her eyes before she noticed the damsel trapped within the tower was neither trapped nor a damsel.

“Dammit, Tristan.”

“There’s no call to take that tone with me! I’m just as disappointed as you are.” Tristan leaned back in his seat, his purple gown tugged up to expose his hairy legs. Isolde squinted at him.

“What are you doing up here?”

“Prince-baiting. Princes can’t resist a good tower rescue,” Tristan said. “And I can’t resist liberating unsuspecting royalty from the burden of their gold.”

Isolde sighed. “And the real princess?”

“Sent her on her way a few days ago. You probably passed her on the road.”

Isolde swung herself into the tower room, brushing off her hands. “Nice dress.”

“You like it?” Tristan smiled, flouncing his skirts. “There was a yellow, but it’s not really my colour. The young men like the purple well enough. From a distance, anyway.”

Isolde hummed, stepping carefully around a harp to stand between Tristan’s legs. “I like the purple,” she said, rubbing a length of belled sleeve between her fingers. Tristan twitched a brow at her.

“What dangerous thoughts play behind my mercenary’s eyes?” He wondered aloud.

“Only that you have robbed me of my bounty, and I yours. But there is no reason we can’t still have some satisfaction from the day,” Isolde said.

“Go on.”

“Fine ladies often become overwhelmed with gratitude when they are rescued. Are you not grateful to me, milady?” Isolde asked, stroking her fingers over the rough stubble on Tristan’s jaw.

“Ever so,” Tristan said, leaning into the touch. “Would you like me to tell you how grateful?”

“I think I’d rather you showed me,” Isolde said, tugging Tristan from his seat and shoving him, stumbling, toward the pile of furs serving as a bed. Tristan laughed, settling on his back where Isolde maneuvered him, his gown fanning wide.

Isolde stripped off her leather plate armour and trousers, not bothering with her tunic as she planted her knees on either side of Tristan’s head. His large hands gripped her arse, steadying her as she smiled down at him. “A kiss for your rescuer?” she teased, purring when his fingers tightened on her rump, dragging her down firmly against his face.

His tongue burrowed deep and withdrew only so he could suck at her, making her grunt, thighs tensing. The happy noises he pressed to her skin sent tingling sensation tracking up her flanks and back. When he found the apex of her cunt he worked his tongue over her in short circles, rapid and light. She stilled, trembling, until she shouted — rutting against his mouth.

“Is my hero satisfied?” he asked, smug when she listed to the side, catching her breath. His hand tightened idly around his cock where he’d flipped his skirts up above his waist.

Isolde smirked, climbing to her feet and piecing her clothes back together. “As always.”

“You should join me sometime,” Tristan said, tugging at himself as he watched her gathering her things. “Prince-baiting, looting, smuggling. We’d make a great team, you and I.”

“Perhaps,” Isolde said, throwing her leg over the windowsill. “Until next time, Tristan.”

* * *

**63.**

Dusk falls as they settle for the evening after a successful day’s patrol of the outlining villages. Lancelot removes his sword belt with a sigh and settles on an upturned log. The sun has almost set but the air is filled with a balmy breeze that keeps him warm.

The rest of their group goes about setting up for the night. Elyan and Leon draw up Arthur’s tent at the far side of the clearing, before making their own bed rolls. Lance is on night patrol so settles back and enjoys the few moments of stillness as the others work around him.

His eyes find Merlin, as they often do, drifting of their own accord to study the lithe lines of his body. Merlin bends to start the fire at the centre of the pit, stones in hand, rubbing together fruitlessly. A second later and his eyes flash that subtle shade of gold, flames rising to lap at the kindling. He looks up to meet Lance’s gaze and grins.

Lancelot returns it with a small smile of his own and hopes the night hides the fact it doesn’t quite meet his eyes.

\--

They eat dinner in comfortable silence, tired limbs leading to tired minds.

Merlin clears their bowls, and takes them down to the river to wash them clean; on his return Arthur corners his servant. They tumble into the King’s tent, Merlin’s laughter echoing across the camp. When Gwaine’s arm reaches across and proffers the fur pouch of warm mead he takes it, gulps it greedily until it stings behind his eyes and burns the back of his throat.

\--

Patrol is quiet, as it often is when they’re so close to Camelot’s sanctuary. A twig snaps underfoot just as a solid presence slots along his back. Lancelot gasps in surprise, though soon his body recognises the muscle of the man behind him, and relaxes.

“Thought you could do with some company,” Percival teases against his ear.

An arm encircles Lance’s waist, pulls him closer until he settles into the bracket of Percival’s hips. It should be unnerving, for a knight to be manhandled in such a way. Lance knows he could fend him off if he wanted. But he doesn’t want to – that’s the point. Sometimes being taken, being controlled is just what he needs.

“How noble of you,” Lance replies. Percival tightens the hand at his side, grinds an unmistakable hardness against the linen of his trousers.

The breeze carries the soft snores of their friends lying dormant through the trees. Lancelot submits with a sigh, allows Percival’s thick fingers to guide his body as he leans, elbows braced, against the bark of a neighbouring oak, breeches pulled to his ankles and tunic shoved under his armpits.

Percival isn’t much of a talker when they do this – he’s not much of a talker full stop, but he always seems to know what Lancelot wants, and just how to give it to him. 

Leaves crunch as Percival drops to the dirt, palms grabbing the muscle of Lance’s arse and pulling his cheeks wide, hole clenching against the chill of the wind. Then it’s hot wet heat. The bridge of Percival’s nose nudges against his coccyx as his tongue works up and in and _there_. It’s like an attack on his body. The sheer force of the mouth on him is relentless and greedy. Percival’s fingers clawing him back so he’s fucking his face. When Lancelot’s orgasm hits he can barely keep his cheek from slamming against the trunk of the tree, rough bark grazing his skin. There’s a rustle behind him but Lance can’t gather the strength to turn and reciprocate as Percival rises to his feet, takes out his cock and rubs it between the sticky mess of Lancelot’s thighs. It would come to stand that this is where Percival’s is loudest. Broken curses of “fuck, shit...Gods have mercy,” fall almost treacherously from his lips. 

When he spends it’s with Lancelot’s name trapped at the back of his throat. 

\--

 

“What hurts most?” Percival asks, tying the laces on his breeches. His eyes drift from Lance slumped at the foot of the tree to the King’s tent in the distance. It billows softly in the evening breeze, shadows dancing across the canvas. “Him making Gwen his Queen, or knowing he still gets to be with him on the side?”

Lancelot doesn’t answer. Somewhere down the line it had all started to hurt just the same.

* * *

**64.**

**and the wind will catch her**

Elena kisses just like she does anything else: a little clumsy and very enthusiastic, a self-deprecating giggle caught at the back of her throat. Isolde doesn’t know why she’s surprised, honestly, though the shock may just be from the fact that Elena kissed her at all. 

(They’ve been dancing around each other for months, ever since Merlin introduced them, said he knew they were going to get on _fantastically_ with a wink and a wicked grin, but Isolde always thought it’d be her making the first move and not Elena cupping her face in both hands and saying, very seriously, “Please don’t punch me,” before leaning down to kiss her.)

When Elena starts to move away, Isolde makes a noise of protest and yanks her back in again, one hand fisted in Elena’s t-shirt, the other curling around the back of her neck. Elena huffs a delighted laugh and murmurs, “That was okay, then?” and Isolde wants to laugh except Elena’s eyes are more serious than Isolde’s ever seen them. 

Elena’s hands are still warm on either side of Isolde’s face, fingers pressing lightly into the skin below her cheekbones, and Isolde leans into the touch, not breaking eye contact for a moment. Elena gulps, her face flushing, but she doesn’t look away, either, and Isolde grins. 

They meet halfway and it’s better, this time, because Isolde isn’t too shocked to kiss back. She skims her hand down Elena’s t-shirt – one Isolde complimented her on a few weeks ago because it makes her boobs look fantastic – and slips underneath, laying her palm flat on Elena’s stomach. Her skin is warm and so soft and Isolde presses in, a little, just to feel Elena jump. 

(Or, well. Maybe not _just_ because of that, but Elena’s skin really is so, so soft, pliant under Isolde’s fingers.)

“Sorry,” Elena mumbles, drawing back a little, and if Isolde couldn’t already tell she was nervous, the way Elena’s shaking, unable to look her in the eye, would give her some idea. 

“Hey,” Isolde says softly, taking her by the wrist in a loose grip so Elena can pull away if she wants to. She doesn’t, but she glances up at Isolde, her eyes wide. “Hey,” Isolde says again, and then she steps forward, steering Elena back until she hits the sofa and goes down, lifting her head to stare up at Isolde like she’s waiting. 

Isolde stares back at her for a moment, two, thinks about all the times she’s fantasised about doing this, about pushing Elena against a surface and fucking her until she screams, Isolde’s name echoing around her flat. 

“Isolde?” Elena says, hesitant, and Isolde smiles, slow and dirty, because she knows it’ll make Elena blush and she looks so pretty with her cheeks stained red. 

(Elena does scream, later, Isolde’s hands gripping her hips to stop her bucking up into Isolde’s mouth, keeping her exactly where Isolde wants her. She pulls back whenever Elena gets close, biting the inside of her thigh or thumbing over her nipples or kissing the fleshy part of her stomach, and Elena’s sobs of frustration get louder and more desperate each time until she breaks and begs, “Please, Isolde, _please_ , I can’t- I need- _please_ ,” her voice utterly wrecked and Isolde just kisses the light thatch of hair above Elena’s groin and goes back down.)

* * *

**65.**

“I don’t want to.” Her voice is trembling around the edges, eyes wide where they meet Nimueh’s in the mirror.

“It won’t be so bad.” It’s poor comfort, she knows, but all she has to offer. Ygraine doesn’t seem to believe her; she turns in her seat and catches Nimueh’s hands in her own.

“I don’t love him,” she says. Nimueh pulls her hands free gently, reaching up to cup Ygraine’s face.

“You may, in time,” she says softly, thumbs rubbing along the jut of her cheekbones. 

“I _won’t_ ,” Ygraine insists. She leans forward to rest her forehead against Nimueh’s and closes her eyes. “I can’t,” she breathes. “Not as I love - ”

“Don’t,” Nimueh whispers, begging. “Please, don’t say it, not now.” It will undo her, send them both tumbling down a path there is no retreat from. She has seen it.

Ygraine’s hands come up to cradle her head, and Nimueh can feel Ygraine’s breath on her lips, can almost taste her. It’s too much and not nearly enough.

She stumbles backwards and her eyes fly open, she can’t bear it, how much she wants, needs, Ygraine. Has always needed her.

Ygraine looks beautiful tonight, as she always does, but there are tears in her eyes now, and Nimueh hates herself for putting them there. Ygraine stands slowly, as though afraid Nimueh will spook and run, hesitating before she steps towards her. When Nimueh just stands, frozen, she moves closer, closer, until her arms are around Nimueh’s waist, her face buried in her neck.

She’s mumbling something into her skin, words it will break Nimueh to hear, words that she longs for all the same. Ygraine raises her head.

“Please,” she says. Nimueh cannot deny her.

The kiss starts out soft, a shudder of lips against lips, Ygraine’s fingers sliding into her hair, holding her steady, anchoring her. The smallest movement, the tiniest pressure, Nimueh holding herself together by the most tattered of threads. She can feel her magic flaring inside her, rushing and building, golden and fire-hot, waiting to spill and ignite and consume.

Then Ygraine moves closer, her hand sliding back to tilt Nimuh’s head, her breasts pressing against Nimueh’s, her tongue reaching out tentatively to touch at her lips and she’s lost.

Nothing else, ever, will matter to her again. 

She undresses Ygraine, as she has done many times before. But it’s different this time, reverent, and Ygraine’s hands are never still, moving over her body, removing one garment for each Nimueh takes from her.

She lays her gently on the bed, but Ygraine tugs her down after her, and rolls them so she’s underneath. 

“Let me do this for you,” she says into Nimueh’s mouth, her hand sliding down to cup her breast. “Let me, please.”

Ygraine slides her leg between Nimueh’s and rocks against her, moving her hips _exquisitely_ , and Nimueh’s clutching at her shoulders, breathing heavy, heart pounding. The magic is thrumming under her skin, she can feel it quickening. It wants to bubble out of her, surround her lover, bind itself to her.

By the time she comes, she’s sobbing, and Ygraine holds her afterwards, curling her body around her.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” is all she can get out. It’s all wrong; she was supposed to be comforting Ygraine, she’s supposed to be the strong one. Not this weeping, wretched mess.

Ygraine turns her head so she can look her in the eye and traces her fingers along Nimueh’s face.

“I will be married tomorrow,” she says, calm now where she was so anxious before. “You were right, I must. He is a good man, I think, and he loves me.” Ygraine kisses her softly. “But I shall never love as I love you, and I do not desire to.”

Nimueh draws a shaky breath. “My magic is for you,” she says, clutching Ygraine fiercely. “It knows you and it loves you. I will always be here and I will always serve you, whatever happens.”

It’s not enough, Nimueh knows. She has dreams, dreams of fighting, of burning. They are always too hazy to be useful, too shadowy and ephemeral, but she knows the end, when it comes, will be savage.

For now, she kisses Ygraine again, harder, deeper. She runs her hands over her skin as if she can never touch enough, memorises the dip of her spine and the curve of her hips.

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” she promises futilely. “I won’t.”

* * *

**66.**

Elyan leaned against the hot stone wall of the fireplace his father had spent his entire life toiling over.

“I guess you are royalty now,” Percival said from behind him. He stood there, naked beside the small plank bed they had already perused in their attempt to get as naked as possible as fast as possible after a very grueling training session.

“No I’m not,” Elyan scoffed, digging his nails into the rough stone. “My sister is. I’m just a peasant.”

“You’re a knight,” Percival reminds him, smiling slightly because it had only been last week when Elyan had reminded him that he was no longer a peasant. It was hard to remember.

Percival wrapped an arm around Elyans waist, his large hands tracing up and down ebony sides. Elyan loved how large he was, and how he seemed to wrap around him, envelope him completely.

“I’m a blacksmith’s son,” Elyan said, tracing where he had tried to carve his and Gwen’s initials into the fireplace as a child, but it had been too much work. He had stopped trying after only carving out a jagged line.

“I don’t think of you like that,” Percival said huskily, nipping slightly at his ear as his hands travelled further south.

“You think of me as a knight?” Elyan moaned, leaning back to give Percival more access. He didn’t hesitate, cupping and pulling at Elyan’s cock. It was nothing like the first time, after their first training session as knights, when they had come together with hesitant hands and brutal force.

Percival groaned and thrust against him as Elyan gripped tightly at the stone fireplace in front of him. The hand around his cock sped up.

“No,” Percival said, his hand finally stilling. “I don’t think of you as a knight.”

“Then wha-” Elyan broke off as one long finger penetrated him. “I’m still ready from before.”

Percival smiled and kissed him softly. Then he added a second finger and crooked them just the way Elyan loved. With a soft chuckle, Percival pumped his fingers a few times as Elyan held on for dear life.

“What do you think of me?” Elyan asked, as he gasped and wiggled his hips back for more.

Percival withdrew his fingers abruptly.

“Mine,” he whispered savagely, thrusting into him. The stones under his hands were rough against his skin as Percival pumped into him with a hard, unforgiving pace. Elyan couldn’t stop from crying out, when Percival took his erection in one of his hands once more. It was too much. He spilled against the fireplace, stilling as his orgasm ripped through him.

As they both take two hesitant steps and drop back onto the hard bed, Elyan turns around to reach up and kiss Percival. It’s sloppy and messy, and after the second orgasm of the night, Elyan isn’t too worried about finesse. Their two bodies are intertwined together, covered in sweat and come from where it had dripped down their legs.

“What about you?” Percival asked. “Do you think of me as a farmer’s son? A knight?”

“No,” Elyan smiled. “I think of you as mine.”

* * *

**67.**

She was beautiful, walking through the crowded room, with her head held high, aloof. Her rigid shoulders only served to emphasize the line of her dress and her full bosom, heaving and sheened in sweat from the heat.

The covetous looks cast in her direction rolled off of her like water, and none managed to turn her head. Not that she would dare to let her eyes stray.

He watched as she slid to her husband's side, saw her flinch when he wrapped a muscled arm- more suited to war than to love- around her slender waist.

She was beautiful, a challenge, _wrong_ ; he wanted her all the more for that.

So he began his seduction, reveling in his own virility, the proof that he could still attract a woman.

He caught her demurely lowered eyes from across the room, and the dance began.

~~~

Vivienne gasped when Uther slid his hands down the curve of her hips, palming at her through the heavy layers of fabric.

The dress that had looked so lovely on her before, that had made the green of her eyes bright as any emerald, was now an unbearable hindrance.

It had been too long, with Ygraine stuck in childbed.

His cock pulsed, hot and full, greedy against the restraint of his fitted trousers, when she stood back and pulled a single breast from the confines of her dress. Her nipple was tight and pink, and very tempting.

Never a man to deny himself, he struck at her, his mouth a hot suckle that had her arching against him and mewling like a cat. Ygraine had never been so vocal. He thrilled at having that wordless praise now.

"Yes!" She cried out, prompting a distracted growl in response.

He laved at the salted flesh of her nipple, then bit sharply at the little nub of flesh. Her cry of pain made his head spin with desire, his cock twitch, and his balls draw up tight in anticipation.

Annoyed with her complicated gown, he gave up. He tore his mouth free and flipped her around, forcing her to brace against a nearby table.

She gasped when he lifted her skirts from behind and thrust his hand between her legs where she was dripping with want. 

"You little whore," he mouthed against her ear, "All wet for me, and your own husband so close."

"Don't..." she abandoned speech when he thrust two fingers roughly between her folds and into the clutch of her womanhood. "Don't _tease_ ," she gasped when he finally withdrew to wipe them wetly across her freed breast.

His chuckle was low and mocking. "As my lady commands." He freed himself, his hard flesh ruddy in the flickering candle light, and impatiently thrust inside of her.

She cried out like a wounded animal, and he bit at her shoulder in reprimand, then wrapped a rough hand around her face to cover her full lips. "Quiet," he warned, punctuating the word with a vicious thrust.

His taking of her was brutal, but so very good, and when he finally spilled inside of her, Uther was left with the dull glow of satisfied pleasure.

He pulled out of her with a nearly obscene squelching sound, and fastened his breeches. He did not look back at the sound of her broken curse, nor did he see her as she trembled, still braced against the table, head hung low as she breathed raggedly with unresolved pleasure.

~~~

Her eyes were bright with anger as she stared up at him, defiant and petulant all at once.

"There is no doubt," she insisted, "the child is _yours_ ,"

He wondered, in that moment, what about her had ever attracted him. Looking at her now, he felt nothing but annoyance and disgust. He turned and walked away, never saying said a word.

He would do what he had to do, but nothing more. Uther understood that being a king meant taking care of such... _difficulties_ , as distasteful as he might find them.

~~~

"Report."

The solider bowed low, "Your highness, it is with deep regret that I inform you of the loss of Lord Gorlois."

Uther nodded grimly. "He died well?"

"He died fighting, sire."

"Good. Ensure that his wife is well provisioned for. I think it time she returned to her family," The soldier bowed more shallowly in acknowledgement.

"Is there anything else?"

“Congratulations on your new promotion. Captain.”

* * *

**68.**

Uther paced the throne room, the setting sun bathing the hall in a wash of red. He had long since sent away his councilors, tiring of their constant bickering...and their insistence that he set aside his queen. Uther rubbed his temple and stopped beneath the western window, watching the sun disappear.

The lack of an heir was becoming serious. By now, he and Ygraine should have a passel of little ones running at their feet. Everyday the council's demands grew.

But.

Uther sighed from deep within. He would not set aside his queen. He would find a way, even if it meant resorting to sorcery. Even if it meant colluding with that witch. Uther sighed and rubbed his hands over his face.

The swish of fabric and scuff of shoe leather caught his attention; and he turned to see a beautiful woman standing beside his throne, her bright red lips curved in a seductive smile as she idly stroked her hand over the wood. She watched him steadily for a few minutes, her dark eyes assessing. Then she chuckled, low and throaty.

“You’ve decided,” she said, her tone smug and sure. “I am glad that you have come to see reason.”

“I have decided _nothing_ , witch,” Uther growled. “I will not risk --”

The priestess’ tinkling laughter cut him off. “Oh, Uther,” she cooed. “ _Life_ is risk. Do you not put her life in more danger by keeping her at your side, useless and unable to conceive?” She regarded him coolly for a moment. “Allow me to help you, to give your queen that which she so deeply desires.”

Uther turned away and closed his eyes, hands clenched in tight fists at his side. Unbidden came the memory of his love, arms wrapped around her waist as she sobbed inconsolably upon their bed as the maids bundled the bloodied sheets away. It was that image that decided him. 

Turning to the witch he nodded. “Very well, Nimueh. What must I do?”

~*~*~*~

Uther’s skin glowed and his cock hung heavy as he hurried down the corridor and threw open the door to the Queen’s chambers. The ritual itself had been short -- a few muttered words and a flash of golden eyes as Nimueh pressed cool fingers to his groin -- and he hadn’t thought to wonder at the triumph in the priestess’ eyes. 

“Go to her now,” she commanded. “You will have your heir.”

Uther fell on his queen where she lay in her bed, and it was the work of seconds to shred the delicate linen she wore. 

“Uther?” she gasped as he pulled a nipple into his mouth and thrust two fingers deeply into her wet heat. She arched into him, fingers scrabbling at his tunic. “What?”

“Need you,” he breathed, fumbling with his laces and sliding his trousers to his knees. “My love, please.”

Ygraine moaned and reached out to guide him back to her breast, her legs falling open in invitation. In one swift movement, Uther entered her and snapped his hips in hard, deep thrusts. Ygraine’s gasps and moans and screams drove him on as he covered her in bruising kisses; her fingers digging into his back when he reached down and fondled her alongside his cock. 

His climax caught him all unaware and he arched his back, driving in as deep as possible. Ygraine followed swiftly, and he watched in wonder as the glow on his skin pooled on her stomach and slowly sank in.

Uther pulled away and reached for cloth on the basin beside the bed. Gently, he cleaned his queen and lay down beside her, arranging her comfortably in the cradle of his body. As Ygraine drifted to sleep in his arms, Uther vowed that they _would_ have their heir, no matter the cost.

* * *

**69.**

“Are you sure you can handle it?” Merlin asks, looking Arthur straight in the eyes. 

“Yeah.”

“Percy’s our friend. You’d hate yourself if you hurt him,” Merlin says, stroking Arthur’s palm.

“We’ve talked about this. I know he’s not a threat to me. I won’t attack him.”

“Okay. Let’s do a test round,” Merlin says and settles comfortably in Arthur’s embrace.

He nods to Percy who gets up from the armchair in the corner and stalks towards the bed. He climbs on the bed and in between Merlin’s spread legs. 

“Hi,” Percy says, grinning.

Merlin rolls his eyes and Percy leans in the rest of the way and kisses him. He can hear Arthur’s inhale and feel his arms tightening around Merlin’s middle. 

“Arthur,” Merlin whispers.

“Sorry,” Arthur replies and Percy looks at him to make sure they’re okay. “Go on,” Arthur says and Percy returns to the task of kissing Merlin who’s slowly melting under his and Arthur’s attention.

“Clothes off,” Arthur says and Percy’s not wasting any time, throwing his T-shirt somewhere to the side and pulling down his jeans. 

Arthur is peeling clothes off of Merlin while Merlin does the same for him. They get lost in each other’s mouths for a few moments. Merlin pulls away with a gasp when Percy sinks two fingers into his already wet hole. 

Four fingers have him clinging to Arthur, his nose pressed to Arthur’s collarbone, while Arthur murmurs little praises about how good he is into his ear.

“Ready. I’m ready,” Merlin cries out, his whole body trembling with need to be filled.

“Easy,” Arthur murmurs and lets Percy hold Merlin up while he lies down.

Merlin climbs on top of him at Arthur’s nod and lowers himself on Arthur’s cock with a long sigh. Percy presses himself to Merlin’s back, trails his hand all over his torso, plays with his nipples, listening to Merlin’s breathy moans. Merlin tilts his head back and their lips meet in a messy kiss.

“Now,” Merlin whispers, looking up at Percy, his eyes slightly unfocused.

Percy growls low in his throat and pushes Merlin forward into Arthur’s embrace. He locks his gaze with Arthur who stops thrusting into Merlin’s wet heat and just waits, his whole body tense.

“Okay,” Percy says and starts pushing in beside Arthur.

Merlin trashes in between them, held securely by Arthur’s strong arms, small distressed noises slowly turning into gasps of pleasure as Percy rolls his hips experimentally.

“Hurry,” Arthur says through clenched teeth and Percy pushes all the way in.

He nods to Arthur who immediately starts with tiny jerks in and out of Merlin and it’s not long before Percy feels pressure at his cock rising. 

“Fuck,” Merlin breathes out and Arthur drops his head to the pillow, litany of ‘gods’ and ‘Merlin’ and ‘so tight’ tumbling from his lips as he pumps his come into Merlin’s stretched channel.

Merlin is trying to prop himself on his hands, but they refuse to hold him up. 

“Please, please, please, I need,” Merlin whines and Arthur hushes him by drawing him in a kiss. 

Percy moves as much as he can in the full space, slowly losing control as his knot grows.

Arthur is stroking Merlin’s cock, Merlin’s cries growing louder with each one of Percy’s thrusts.

“Almost there,” Percy pants and let’s go of all his restraints, pounding into Merlin with full force.

Merlin clenches around them and Percy’s orgasm is pulled out of him. He collapses on top of Merlin, his cock still pulsing. Merlin is shivering through his aftershocks beneath him, moaning quietly.

Merlin’s breathing evens out eventually and Percy watches Arthur’s face go soft as he kisses Merlin’s brow.

“He’s asleep,” Arthur whispers.

Percy nods and helps Arthur maneuver them into more comfortable position.

“Was it what he wished for?” Percy asks.

“What do you think?” Arthur whispers back, caressing Merlin’s cheek.

* * *

**70.**

There is much Aithusa does not yet understand about the world. He is innocent, curious, trusting—all things a dragon can no longer afford to be. Kilgharrah must teach him many things, and there is so little time.

Aithusa cannot yet fly above the clouds, but he is skilled in stealth. A white dragon has its advantages, and Kilgharrah seems to learn a new one every day.

Kilgharrah teaches Aithusa of war, of the way men court mortality for the sake of fleeting abstractions like honour and duty. Kilgharrah explains the folly of their actions, the futility of war, and Aithusa seems to understand.

But he is reckless. Aithusa is drawn to magic, cannot yet ignore its beckon. Kilgharrah remembers his own youth, remembers approaching a young girl whose magic had sung to him, remembers escaping narrowly, his wings split down the middle. He learned that day that those with magic are just as dangerous as those without—perhaps more so. They become drunk on power. Only the dragonlords may be trusted.

Aithusa does not yet understand this principle notion, that willing good intentions does not make them so. And he does not respect the noble order of the dragonlords—an order of one now. The last of his kind. Kilgharrah has known that loneliness. Aithusa knows nothing but immediacy.

Kilgharrah wants to explain immediacy to Aithusa, to impart its irrelevance in a life as long as theirs, but the dragon tongue is limited. Aithusa has not yet learned the speech of mortals, is too stubborn and driven by the need to explore to fold his wings and listen.

Before they embark, Kilgharrah explains the concept of mating. He does not miss it, roiling for hours with another, but he feels an acute sense of loss for Aithusa’s sake. He will never know the joys of sirehood, of simple carnal contact.

As they fly through the storm, Aithusa asks where they’re going. Worry wells up in Kilgharrah when Aithusa does not feel the pull of the dragonlord’s magic.

They set down during a loud clap of thunder, the heavy sound of their wings obscured to mortal ears.

Aithusa moves to investigate the terrain as though he’s forgotten why they’ve come. Kilgharrah presses one talon against Aithusa’s ridged spine, urging him to be still, to absorb the meaning of what they are witnessing.

The King of Camelot kneels between the last dragonlord’s thighs, one hand resting low on his belly, soothing, the other pressing into his body. Aithusa’s eyes grow wide in question, and Kilgharrah explains that two men cannot breed, that they touch one another for pleasure and comfort. Aithusa does not understand the concept of comfort.

King Arthur presses his penis into Merlin, and Merlin’s hands grasp at thick biceps, steadying himself. Arthur lays across Merlin’s body, pulling a thigh up to wrap around his leg. Merlin rolls his hips beneath him, presses his face into Arthur’s neck, twines fingers into blond hair, his voice breaking on Arthur’s every thrust.

Arthur runs a hand over Merlin’s torso, brushing a thumb across his nipple, cradling his small ribcage. He pushes Merlin’s hand above his head, and Merlin moans low and loud when Arthur presses his face into the hair under his arm, revelling in the intimate scent of Merlin as he ruts into his body.

Kilgharrah is explaining the necessary transience of this union to Aithusa, telling him that this coupling will be lost and forgotten in lives too full of chaos and strife, when Arthur presses his forehead to Merlin’s, twining their fingers as his hips jerk and then still. Kilgharrah feels the young warlock’s magic thick in the air, feels it sustaining Arthur’s release as Merlin spills between them.

Arthur pushes back the hair from Merlin’s forehead and runs his nose along the seam of black and white. There is a kind of simultaneous permanence and finality about the act, and Kilgharrah teaches Aithusa about Albion instead.

He tells the young dragon of how these two fragile, ephemeral creatures will transcend themselves and herald the age of unity. Together they will rush headlong into mortality and defeat it, be born again, wash up on the opposite shore of history renewed, relevant, necessary.

Kilgharrah explains that the time of dragons will end. Aithusa bristles with the typical obstinacy of youth, the taste for eternity that cannot possibly be quenched.

The young king presses his mouth to his lover's lips, and Kilgharrah feels Albion set down roots around them.


End file.
